ragamuffin diva

Kissing Brennan Manning

2011-10-17T11:26:00.001-04:00

The year was 2007, the seventh month and seventh year. Even the date was part of a conspiracy of grace. You know what they say about the number seven. It's God's favorite number, and he must have been feeling good that day, and especially enamored of this ragamuffin gal.

I was on my way to Christian Book retail show called ICRS, to sign advanced reader copies of Zora and Nicky, a novel I wrote that received critical acclaim (but not great sales). My good friends and publishing family folks, Don Pape and Terry Behimer, had orchestrated to pick me up at the airport in a big honkin' black stretch limo. My plane was supposed to arrive before theirs and according to my schedule I had to wait a bit before I would meet them, but Don and Terry would be worth the wait. I love those folks.

Let me give you a little history about Don and Terry. Don and I go waaaaaaaay back to Ancient Days in 2004, shortly after I stole an issue of Today's Christian Woman from the hospital surgical waiting room. Nowadays I'm inclined to think stealing is a strong word for simply taking the offering a kind, evangelistic soul left there to rock my world. And it truly did. In general, TCW did not rock my world. But this issue, with a black woman on the cover, and decidedly imperfect Christian women inside, filled me, the chieftess of sinners, with such an intense longing to write my ragged soul journey that I couldn't just leave it. So yes, I boosted it. I read it in the hospital cafeteria. I pored over it on the bus. I gazed at it as if were a wonder of the world, devouring it from cover to cover at home. That night I held it to my heart and begged Jesus to please let me write for him, though I was unworthy. Soooo unworthy. But I started my blog, Ragamuffin Diva, days later. I mean, I knew no Christian publisher would publish the likes of me: a chronically depressed, bipolar, hot ghetto mess. But I was a beloved mess. Brennan Manning taught me that. I called my blog Ragamuffin Diva because of him, not the King of Ragamuffins, but the humble servant of us all. About a year earlier, I read his stellar work,The Ragamuffin Gospel, and found myself on every page. Brennan's life was evidence that God's love would storm every bed in hell I was capable of making. And I made a lot! They thought I was the chambermaid down there.

My new friend Lisa Samson read my fresh of the blog press blog, and told her publisher, none other than Don Pape, about it. He sent me an email asking me if I'd be interested in writing a novel for his publishing house. Heck yeah I would, and I did! Only the acquiring editor kept a stash of ten foot poles he used to do stuff like not to touch my work. Don left that house only days after I finished my draft. But he ended up becoming a literary agent three weeks later, and represented my novel instead of publishing it. That's where Terry comes in. She was the Editorial Director at a well known Christian publishing house, and snapped that novel up, giving me a nice chunk of moolah for it (those were the days!). Then both of them moved on to another house, David C. Cook. Once Don became a publisher again, and immediately after my career imploded, Don emailed me with the second best offer of my career, and that is how Zora and Nicky was born. And again, Terry acquired it. Don and Terry were, and continue to be, harbingers of amazing grace to me.

So there we were, waiting in the airport on 7/7/07, for the last of our limo riders to arrive. And that's when more grace began to rain. Terry asked me, probably to prevent me from having a heart attack, if I wouldn't mind waiting for one more person. Mr. Brennan Manning would be riding with us.

I really tried not to freak, at least I tried not to show it. But I was out of my head with excitement! My husband had already warned me not to scare Brennan if I glimpsed him, and by golly I would try not to mow him down like a really big, yelping, licking puppy. I would try!

And then there he was, the life changer who knew God loved hot ghetto messes. He doesn't just save wretches like me. He adores us. Brennan was wearing a pink shirt, and what Terry called "wacky pants," a pair of windowpane jeans with squares of a plaidesque pink, green, yellow, light blue and white. Who knows where he got them. His suit case was black and I had a pink laptop bag. I was wearing black pants and a zebra top, so of course I asked if we could switch outfits. He said those pants were 15 years old, and somebody offered him five hundred bucks for them! I told them I couldn't afford that because Terry didn't give me big enough advances. And that made him laugh. Then my friend and editor extraordinaire, Andrea Christian, told me to feed him peanut butter ice cream--he loves it!--to distract him and get the pants off of him. Now, that was Andrea talking about getting the man's pants off, not me. That time. Then, we filed into the limo, and everyone chose seats that would leave me right across from Brennan. A holy ambush!

At the time, Brennan had just begun working on his memoir for David C. Cook, at the time called, An Honest Man. Now it's titled, All is Grace, and if you read it you will see that, while both titles work, the latter has the real message Brennan wants to leave us with.

I was aflame to read his memoir. He couldn't write fast enough. So I asked him how it was going. He said he thought it would be pretty boring.

Whaaaaaat???

Turns out his friend was Francis McNutt. I know Dr. McNutt's writings. This guy is a bonafide wonder worker. Brennan thought his own ministry lacked miracles. Boring.

I was astounded, not because Brennan Manning doesn't have miracles--and of course he does--but because he wasn't aware of what they were! His writing about God's crazy love has infused every published word that I've written. EVERY STINKING WORD! And I had to tell him, like a grateful, yelping, licking puppy, just how much he meant to me.

The Ragamuffin Gospel came to me when I was hella messed up. Life was hard for me, a once upon a time teenaged missionary. Other people's expectations for my 16-year-old missionary self had me so beat down by the time I was 30, I felt like I my new title was "God's Biggest Disappointment." I wanted to cry as I told him this, but I stayed strong to tell my story better.

I told Brennan that it is the ordinary messes he touches, people who don't need to read about a miracle, except the outrageous grace that God loves them just as they are. Back in the day, I couldn't even hold my head up in my Heavenly Father's House. And that is tragic. It is a shame to feel too weary to be loved on by God in what should be your spiritual home. I told that lovely little poor man, so like St. Francis of Assisi, that it was he who taught me that I was okay with God. More than okay, really. Loved.

Isn't that a real live miracle if you truly didn't believe it before? And isn't that the Gospel? The real good news. God loved me, even though I'd messed up like a dog returning to it's own vomit, again and again, but God still loves me. I don't have to clean up nice to earn his love. Being, is pretty much a guarantee of possessing it. My life is marked by every kind of failure, yet God loves me. My failures outnumber any good works by far, but God isn't counting. Wow!

When I finished, Brennan said, "Holy mackerel!" which was the best response ever.

At the hotel I asked if I could take a picture of us on my computer. I knew it would be a wacky composition because it's hard to hold a MacBook in front of you for a group shot. Andrea ended up holding my Mac while I kissed that dear man on the cheek. It isn't often you get to kiss your hero, but because of love I didn't deserve I did. For despite my multitude of flaws, my Father, according to Brennan, is very, very fond of me. And so are my dear friends, who so kindly gave me time to be with the Ragamuffin. I cherish the moment I found myself kissing Brennan Manning, the time I gave a teensy weeny crumb of grace and gratitude to the guy who saturated me with God's love.

That moment is gone now. The memoir is finished. and it isn't the crumb of grace Brennan thought it was--read it and see what I mean. To a ragamuffin like me it's Babette's Feast, a once in a lifetime gourmet meal from a man who spent it all, his whole life, finding grace in the most graceless places, and didn't mind serving it to us.

Buy a bunch of copies. Watch how it changes you and your loved ones. Then buy some more and change somebody's life.

All is Grace is on sale now from David C. Cook. I'm reading as part of Pantheos Book Club. Read an excerpt of All is Grace there today.

Risen! Art by Lisa Samson, Meditation by St. John Chrysostom paraphased by Claudia Mair Burney

2011-04-24T11:24:00.006-04:00

Rejoice! A Paraphrase of St. John Chrysostom's Pascal Homily

Rejoice!

Lovers of God, rejoice!

in this festival of radiance;

Christ is risen from the dead!

All you wise and grateful servants, rejoice!

Enter into the joy of the Lord.

You who have labored long in fasting,

come now, collect your reward.

You who have toiled from first hour,

come and receive your due.

You who have come after third hour,

with thanksgiving join the feast.

If you have come after sixth hour, have no doubt;

nothing is lost.

Any delayed until ninth hour,

fearlessly rush in.

Those of you just arriving at the eleventh,

don't worry that you are late;

you are right on time.

For our Lord is gracious,

receiving the last and the first.

To one he gives; to another he bestows.

Rest now, you who have come at the eleventh hour;

rest now, you who have come from the first.

To the last he gives great mercy;

to the first his tender care.

He accepts your work,

warmly welcoming your intentions.

He lavishes your acts with praise.

All of you enter, first and last,

come into the joy.

Rich and poor rejoice together!

The monk and the messy, celebrate the day!

You who have fasted, and you who ate your fill,

feast now! The table is heavy with food.

Devour the fatted calf.

No one goes hungry today.

Drink deeply of the cup of faith;

all of you drink up!

Let no one lament his poverty;

the kingdom universal is revealed.

Do not mourn if you have fallen,

even if you've fallen again and again.

Rejoice in mercy and pardon,

forgiveness has burst from the grave.

Let no one fear death;

the Savior's death has set us free.

He who has died annihilated death.

He was hell on hell, outraging it

when it tasted his sweet flesh.

It was as Isaiah said,

"You, O hell, have been troubled by encountering him below."

Hell was outraged because it was abolished!

Mocked!

Purged!

Despoiled!

He bound hell in chains.

It stole a body and stumbled upon God.

What it snatched from the earth was heaven.

Hell took what it could see, and was defeated by mystery.

O death, where is your sting?

Hell, where is your victory?

Rejoice!

Christ is risen; hell defeated!

Rejoice!

Christ is risen, demons fallen!

Rejoice!

Christ is risen, angels sing!

Rejoice!

Christ is risen!

Life reigns.

Christ is risen; the dead rise from their graves.

Not one dead remains.

Christ is risen; first fruit of those who sleep.

Rejoice!

Christ is risen!

To him be glory, honor and power,

now and forever.

Where to Find Me

2011-04-21T23:19:00.000-04:00

I know, I know! I'm missing in action. At least I am here, but when I do blog, I seem to do it at the virtual monastery, The Sunshine Abbey. Here's the url: http://the-sunshine-abbey.com

But don't give up on raga-d yet. I'm just very, very busy.

Meet ya at the Abbey! At least for the time being. And do scroll down and read back up to experience all the Stations of the Cross between now and Holy Saturday.

Mucho love! And blessed Easter Triduum!
mair

Rome Weighs In: A Station of the Cross, Art by Lisa Samson

2011-04-05T20:34:00.000-04:00

At The Sunshine Abbey.

Here's the url:

http://the-sunshine-abbey.com/2011/04/06/rome-weighs-in-a-station-of-the-cross-art-by-lisa-samson/

See you there!

Love,
mair

Peter Denies Jesus: A Station of the Cross, Art by Lisa Samson

2011-04-04T07:38:00.000-04:00

At The Sunshine Abbey, of course. Click here, and here's the url to the post:
http://the-sunshine-abbey.com/2011/04/04/peter-denies-jesus-a-station-of-the-cross-art-by-lisa-samson/

I hope your Lent is going well.

Much love,
Mair

Betrayed: A Station of the Cross, Art by Lisa Samson

2011-03-14T08:59:00.000-04:00

Meet me at the Sunshine Abbey:

http://the-sunshine-abbey.com/2011/03/14/betrayed-a-station-of-the-cross-art-by-lisa-samson/

Much love, and blessed Lent!
mair

Lent at the Sunshine Abbey

2011-03-09T08:02:00.000-05:00

Hello lovies,

We've got some good, good things going on at The Sunshine Abbey. I'd love for you to visit. My dear friend, Lisa Samson is drawing the stations of the cross as her Lenten devotion, and I'm praying with it, using Ignatian imaginative prayer as my spiritual practice. It's a lovely collaboration, and I think you'll be moved by us.

Meet me over there, eh?

Love ya!
mair

The Sunshine Abbey Has Launched

2011-03-01T13:26:00.001-05:00

It's a "soft" opening, rife with tech difficulties and ridiculous obstacles, but I did it, y'all. The best is yet to come.

Visit the abbey here or at http://the-sunshine-abbey.com/

Don't forget to say hi! And please do follow me on Twitter @sunshineabbess

Smooches! Gotta get to the daycare now.

Love,
mair

A Broken Strand of Pearls, and My Love

2011-02-26T05:39:00.002-05:00

It's funny how in the midst of so much crafting a new life, the old one lurches forward and slaps you in the face, forcing you to pay attention to the pain, small and keening in some dark corner of your consciousness. You've left it there to die, but it refuses, and despite your best efforts, and most positive thinking, despite your stoic and sometimes joyful forward movement, you still hear it over there, and the sound reminds you that you're broken hearted. You're angry. You're baffled.

I blame myself most days. He was thin and beautiful. I was fat--the classic "she let herself go" girl. He could get out of bed, depressed! I wallowed there for days, weeks, months. Years? I'm 46, but I walk with a cane a lot of days. I should have
made more money--I should be making more money. I should have been a better house keeper. I should have learned to play bid whist. I should have given more, been more, cooked and cared for him instead of writing books. I should have loved him almost as much as I loved that sweet, brown-eyes carpenter who won't stop wooing me, my Beloved. And in the end, I couldn't take it all back. In the end, he didn't choose me, he choose a life without me, and why should he have? I say.

But I loved him the best way I knew how, and lovies, I didn't really know how. I tried, and now it's over. I mean really over, and the way that slap in the face releases tears you thought were all dried up, it's me in that dark corner right now, not some distant knot of grief I can't quite get at. It's me, Claudia Mair, crying all over my iPad, and writing because I can't seem to get through life--through pain--without wrestling words from my heart.

Not too long ago, I used to think our love was like a strand of pearls, not a uniform and comely adornment, but a wild, crazy, unexpected funky piece. Each pearl unique, each one born of grit, mystery, and friction that our passion polished to a high gloss. And despite ourselves, we were a kind of strong and lovely, fine, fine thang. But now that strand is broken, and pearls are scattered all over the ground, and BE CAREFUL! because that's my freakin' marriage down there, and you can't just trample it. For what?

Don't make me answer for what. It is a most unsatisfying response.

Now all that's left are the pearls that are mine, the one's I brought to us. And on closer examination, they really are breathtaking. They're amazing, because the odds were always piled high against me. I shouldn't have been able to love as long and hard as I did with what I had to work with. My love was a bonified miracle.

I've mentioned before how much I loved Ntozake Shange's FOR COLORED GIRLS. Usually I quote the poem in which one of those gorgeous ladies says, "I found god in myself and I loved her fiercely." But in this wee small hour of the morning I'm thinking of each ladies declaration of the worth of their love, imperfect as it was/is. My love is too... and they filled in the blank with their bold and bodacius declaration that ended with the words: to have thrown back on my face.

Well lovies:

My love is too important, too resilient, too passionate, too dignified despite a remarkable ability to get down and dirty; my love is too joyous, too precious, too real, too alive, and did I say too important? to have thrown back on my face. My love is too offering-from-God-high-and-holy to have thrown back on my face. My love is just too inspired.

I needed to remember that this morning, when sorrow threatened to wash me away and it was easier to resort to useless self-pity, than to move forward with my head up and shoulders squared, knowing I would have done anything to win him back, except be the battered soil beneath the swine. No one who loved as much as I did deserves that. I needed to remember the power of my ragamuffin love, and it's glorious poverty that proved once and for all that I am, indeed, a diva. I have to carry that knowledge in the same exquisite soul sanctuary I now carry my once scattered pearls in. See, I may need to make another fine work of art with that love, another wild and beautiful treasure. Knowing its worth keeps the hope of new and better love alive in me, and trust me when I say I plan to sashay my wide and fine behind into my future with all the hope I can stand.

With fierce determination,
Claudia Mair

Creating a Life

2011-02-24T22:27:00.000-05:00

So, I have been busy, dolls, creating a life. A big, juicy life. It is vastly different than the life I'm living now, as a humble, virus afflicted daycare center worker. In the life I'm creating I'm the Sunshine Abbess, and it's my job to play with you in prayer and worship. It's some serious fun we're having, and you know what, we love this shared journey.

Only today I'm dragging. I left work after 8 pm tonight, and I still feel kinda sucky from another virus. Financial issues poke at me, telling me that my dreams are impossible. This, my friends, is the optimum time to have faith.

You can't see the outcome when you have faith, even with bright hope shining in your face. You only know the next month or few months will require walking on water, so you take off your Chuck Taylor All Stars--they'll be ruined!--and you put on some Wellies, or better yet go at it barefoot. I mean, when you walk on water probably the least of your concerns is getting your feet wet. Peter freaked out when he walked on water because the weather was bad, as if clear skies made it easier to walk those waves. How silly we humans are.

I've done an awful lot of stressing about things I have no control over right now--the hole in my bank account, the lack of funds for the trainings I want so badly to attend, the lack of tech knowledge to create the virtual monastery of my dreams. So I take a breath, stand back, and determine to simplify. God doesn't despise small beginnings, and I have to trust that if you, dear reader, come here, you'll stopover at the Abbey next week, even if it isn't high tech, and you'll continue to partake in the beautiful life with God with me. It doesn't have to be a flash wonder. And I have to trust that the Lord wouldn't lead me to the training, open the doors for me to attend, and not provide the means for me to go.

I do have a tiny miracle, maybe a first step in my ocean motion: I had a great meeting with a well-respected and much loved publisher. It went very, very well, and for a few hours-- longer that that, really, I was certain that all things are possible, especially what my heart desires most right now--that awesome expressive arts teacher training! Not to mention that God knows how much I want a new book contract. He knows it all.

Will you pray with me? I want you to be as big a part as my new life as you have been in the fullness of my Ragamuffin Divatude.

I love you so,
Mair

Me, the Child Jesus, and Birds

2011-02-16T14:43:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I did a lot of dreaming. As you know, I'll be very busy for the next two weeks making the launch for my creative business, The Sunshine Abbey happen. The Virtual Monastery opens it's doors March 1, 2011, so save the date! Of course, I'm thinking of all the ways I can learn and grow, so I can share with you how you can have fun, artistic, and exquisitely meaningful experiences in prayer and worship using your innate creativity. Yes, YOU can be a creative monk! I spent one morning praying, praying, praying that God would lead me to training opportunities that would enhance this particular holy mission. And lovies, don'tcha know my Beloved did just that. I found the FABULOUS Chris Zydel, and I <3 her teacher training program. Friends, I am going. It's going to take several miracles, but there are plenty of those available.

So, now that I've been led to the program, I am praying (fervently) for the provision needed for me to attend. As I was praying yesterday, on the computer. I do that. LOL. A tweet came in and I looked at it. It was from a Catholic website that helped people connect to the saints. I checked it out. I'm always down with the saints getting on board and praying with me and for me. It's good to have friends in high places. As I scoured the lists of saints to read about, I came across some favs. There was my beloved Great Teresa, Teresa of Avila. Y'all know how cool we are. If I had a bff in heaven, besides Jesus, Teresa would be it. And Francis. And Dorothy, but that's another blog entry altogether. There was also St. Gerard, who mysteriously came to me a few years ago. When I say came to me, I don't mean I saw him in a vision or anything. I mean I had a burning desire to know who he was--I mean burning! I also saw Therese, the Little Flower, on the site. She's been very important to me ever since my trip to Africa. All three had something in common; they'd all had a intense love for the Child Jesus. In fact, Teresa of Avila made sure to give a statue of him to every house she founded.

For most of my spiritual life, I've been about the God/Man Jesus. He was Savior, friend, Advocate with the Father, and I know him very intimately now as my Beloved, my Good Spouse. A few Advent seasons back I really connected with him as the Holy Infant--oh, how I held that baby to my breast, and tried to nurture him. Adore him. But the Child Jesus, I didn't know much about him at all.

I love the story Teresa of Avila tells of the time she came across a child in her convent. This gorgeous tiny human was certain a mystery. She said to him, "I am Teresa of Jesus. Who are you?" And he said, "I am Jesus of Teresa." ::::SWOON:::: What a charmer, he.

I lay back in bed where I prayed and meditated that morning, and thought of the Child Jesus, in all his stunning beauty. I didn't think about what he would have looked like to St. Teresa. I didn't ponder long this child who appeared to St. Gerard, and played with him. They played together, friends. I wondered how he would look to me, and how he would pray/pray with me.

And that's all it takes most times, a little holy imagination. Sometimes I think, and this is purely experiential, that Jesus can hardly resist holy imagination. He enters into it, engages us, plays with us. There he was, a child--not my Good Spouse, not my kind Boyfriend--and he has been all that! He was a child, and he wanted to play with my glitter crayons! This sweet child had paint splatters on his clothing, and tiny dots of color dappling his face and curly brown hair. He smiles easily. This was the kind of kid who could get you in trouble with grown ups. I instantly loved him fiercely.

All week I've had a vision of myself, praying with a paintbrush in my hand. Yellow paint dripped from the tip. That was all I could see, however, until the Child Jesus burst into my heart and mind, tracking all kinds of color on his little bare feet.

Have you ever heard the story about Jesus and the clay birds? According to the non-canonical-but-still-a-great-collection-of-stories Infancy Gospel of Thomas, when Jesus was five years old he made a dozen sparrows out of clay, clapped his hands, and they came alive! I told you he could get you in trouble! And lovies, I'm in trouble.

Jesus and I have been crafting birds, almost the way I crafted them in the collage above. One little birdie is The Sunshine Abbey, another is the teacher training, another still is taking what I learn at the training and bringing it to women who need to recover their creative, authentic, most holy voices. Battered women. Raped women. Homeless women. Affluent women who have more money than they know what to do with, but no idea who they are or what they love, down deep, any more. Ordinary artist souls who forgot how divine creating is, and thought themselves out of their birthright: self-expression. Mercy, I had no idea when I had my throat blessed how much God would want to do with that freedom.

The Bird by Bird collage I made in 2009, a gift to Alison Strobel, has a quote by Anne Lamott from her fabulous book by the same title. The quotes was said by her father to her brother, who was battered by overwhelm regarding a school project about birds. "Look, honey," he said, "We are just going to take this bird by bird." And bird by bird I'm counting on the paint splattered, glitter crayon lovin', Child Jesus, who awakens all of our inner children, to clap his hands, or kiss those birdies we've fashioned and numbered together, and bring them to life.

Birdie number one is flapping its tail feathers, but it's still mostly clay as I blunder through creating a new blog and domain. But it will be fully alive and ready to take flight March 1st! The first session of the training starts a mere 21 days later. It's hard to see that bird as anything more than a fanciful notion trapped in my heart, but we believe in wings here, the kind that get you airborne. I believe! And once again, I'd like you to join me on the journey of flight. But more about that later. For now, your prayers and dreams and play with the Child Jesus yourself, are enough.

Thanking you for sharing life with me.

Much love,
Mair
PS, read a wonderful parable about Jesus and the Clay Birds here.

Grow Love, and Share It

2011-02-14T20:41:00.000-05:00

I was having a good day. I was having a magnificent day. (Most) of the house is clean. I was at work, and everyone wore something St. Valentine's Dayish, and my class had a pajama party. I got to wear pajamas to work. Someone gave me a heart shaped doughnut. I had an issue I had to appear in court about. The case was dismissed. I returned to work with an hour left before I was off. I was going to have a party. In a few hours, my friends would fill my house, we would have vegetarian and not vegetarian food. We would drink champagne. I felt happy.

And then I got home. I checked my email, and there it was, a message from Ken. I am certain it was offered in kindness. I am sure it meant well, but I started bawling when I read it, and I hadn't bawled--straight up boo hoo snotted and cried like a baby, in a while.

It felt good not to cry. It felt amazing not to be consumed with anger and fear, especially the fear. I have been uber productive. Lovies, The Sunshine Abbey is officially launching on March 1st. In two weeks it will be up and running to meet your creative monk needs. I'm wildly excited. I've been busy.

What was I thinking? Did I really believe I wouldn't cry on my 15th anniversary, on the first anniversary in fifteen years I wasn't with Ken? And then I wiped my tears. I cried again, wiped them again, and shortly thereafter gratefully welcomed my guests. It was a simple affair, a room with people who have decided to love me, people who I have given myself to love. And isn't that like so much of life? There you are, quite simply, with the people who love you. They may not be who you thought they would be. Sometimes they're a ragtag group of ragamuffins who have little in common except a desire to live a life of love. Sometimes the people who love you are so common, so in your face, and in your life, that you almost forget how vital they are. They are the source that keeps you getting up. And when you can't get up, they are the ones who sit by the bed, or sometimes climb right in there with you.

I have a lovie I've known for many years. When she was sad about some boyfriend or another, I would tell her, "All the love in the world didn't go with him. There are so many ways to love." Tonight, I chose love in no small measure, but there were still unexpected tears.

St. John of the Cross said, "Where there is no love put love, and there you will find love." But I'm not a person with no love. I'm fortunate. I say, "Where there is love, grow it, and share it. And there will be enough love for us all." But love is tricky. You hold and release, and fill and watch it flow out of holes, there is the ebb of the tide, and then it comes back again, and far more scenarios than I can recount tonight.

Being here with you is growing love. I wanted you to know that. Love is here, in this strange and wonderful bit of cyberspace, and that's one reason I'm creating the abbey, to grow it, and share it with even more people. Let the Sun/Son shine!

I hope you will stay with me, and take this new, sacred creative journey. And my dear friends, have a happy Valentine's Day, even if you shed a few tears. There is so much love to be found, to be shared, and to be experienced.

Don't give up.

Much love,
mair

More Year of Unknowing Stuff

2011-02-10T11:09:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I'm way sorry about the craptastic image here, but turns out my scanner is broken. Dude... Doooooooood! This the the WORST time ever for my scanner to tank, but maybe God is in this. It wasn't a great scanner in the first place.

Anyway, and I hope the picture shows up. Elaborate blog maneuvers get tricky on the iPad. I am busy! I work the day job. Two year olds are still killing me, bless their hearts, and I'm still living in community, trying to be faithful, and starting a new life as a separated, soon to be divorce mother who homeschools. Hey, is this me I'm talking about? WTHeck???

Anyway, if that doesn't sound like unknowing, I don't know what does. From January my life has changed so dramatically I'm reeling! But I did do my annual self-portrait vision board. That's it, lovies, and may I say, boy was I surprised. Last year's was chock full of images. This year, totally stripped down. Mind you, I'm not done with the collage. I'll probably add some paint elements, and finish coating it with mat medium, but what I want to share here is how informative this vision board is.

I began with the understanding that this is the year of unknowing. The word "unknowing" kinda spooked me. I thought I'd experience all this gloomy, dark, what the heck is going on here, and despite any effort I made to reassure myself with the idea that that is NOT what unknowing is about, my creeped-outness persisted.

I am not even a third way done with the book, The Cloud of Unknowing. Mostly because I wanted to go slowly enough to savor the journey, but also because the stress in my life has effectively made every ADD tendency in me, and there are many, run amok. I can only do itty-bitty things, read short bursts of info, take baby steps, and boy am I ever dreamy. See what I mean? I'm supposed to be telling you about my vision board revelations.

So, just before the new year my daughter Abbie dreamed I had TWO babies. They were miracle babies, and we were all thrilled that not one, but two miracles came into my life. When I was praying over the magazine images, the one of the naked black woman and baby jumped out at me. When I pray through collage, that's what I look for, that gut feeling that THIS is the image I need to pay attention to. I snipped it out, and put it aside. Not much came to me that session. Roses, and a carnation. Red, and white. Roses always signify redemptive suffering to me. Heavy on the redemptive. Honeys, I'm awesome at suffering. Redemptive suffering, not so much, that's why I wrestled with the issue in my novel Wounded, and why I still struggle with getting to the essence of such a mystical concept. Carnations--and this is just me y'all--make me think of death. All those funeral carnations I've seen in my day. I didn't want that on my freakin' vision board, but there it was. You have to pay attention to your instincts when you do the pray, paper, scissors thing. Somethings, many many things, will die this year, but that ain't all bad. Somethings really needed to go, and rest in peace!

I also used the small image of Our Lady as envisioned by St. Catherine Laboure. You can GOOGLE her. This was the image my raised me mama gave me when I was about seven or eight. We were ridiculously not Catholic. Nothing in my life was Catholic, but receive a necklace of the Virgin Mary I did, and this was it. I think she was drawing me to her Son, and mother love even then. And here she is again, arms outstretched. I may really need a mom this year (so say my instincts). Jesus is good to give me his.

And here I am, too, trying to process all, being courageous, and not afraid. The Year of Unknowing is wild with change, but it isn't necessarily (always) terrifying. Today, I am full of dreams and plans for my sacred, creative business. If you like me friends, you are going to get the best, most authentic, and generous version of me soon, when I finally launch The Sunshine Abbey. I hope you stick around. I feel as if I am in a warm, safe, womb. It is dark, I cannot see what will happen, but I feel so connected to God. And loved. If love makes you real, I am feeling oh so very, very REAL. And not afraid of the dark.

The text is called The Prayer of Privy Counsel I found it in the introduction to the audio version of The Cloud of Unknowing I purchased on Audible, that also has The Book of Privy Counsel by the same anonymous English monk. I modified it a teensy bit. It says:

That which I am and the way that I am,
with all my gifts of nature and grace,
you have given me, O Lord, and you are
all this. I offer it to you, principally
to praise you and help my fellow human beings (anonymonk wrote fellow Christians)
and myself.

I pray this year that I will be able to serve, share and love, here, through any new books I may have traditioanally published, and the SuperFantabulicious ebooks and e-courses you find on the soon to be born Sunshine Abbey.

I think the year of Unknowing will be full of surprises. What say ye?

Love,
mair, who has not forgotten you are still waiting for chapter 2 of the NPWitY. Soon! Keep coming back!

The Blessing of the Throat

2011-02-07T08:15:00.000-05:00

So, I drag myself to church Sunday morning. I haven't been to church since ~~God only knows~~--well, it's been awhile. Some Sundays I was working. Some I was sleeping after working all night the night before on third shift--yes, the daycare is open 24 hours. And sometimes, I was just plain old sick. A lot of it was sickness of the soon-to-be-divorced-and-dear-God-I'm-depressed kind. But I was determined go. I made sure to get some sleep. Let me tell you, we don't know sleeping at night in this house, but I did, and slept the night through (except for Lumumba waking me up at 4 to ask a question. At 4 am!) Of course, usually I'm wide awake at that hour. But I digress.

I wore the purple dress for the first time. It's a size smaller than most of the dresses in my wardrobe, and it's got this cool "tribal" kind of pattern that makes me think of Africa. I thought I'd feel a little divalicious in it, and I've needed to feel that recently. I put on make up. Not much. Just enough to sprinkle my steps with pep, and I headed out and, will wonders cease? I actually made it on time and got a seat instead of having to stand.

I didn't know until recently that pending divorce is capable of wiping away trillions of brain cells. I knew it was February, but I couldn't tell you the exact date. I knew it wasn't Lent yet, and I'd passed Epiphany and was in ordinary time. Everything else was fuzzy. Turns out, whether it was today proper or not, we were celebrating the memorial of St. Blaise, and anyone who wanted to could come forward to receive the blessing of the throat.

I have to admit, in my convert zeal I have tended to stick to the usual suspects among the saints--St. Mary of Egypt being the exception, and she is far more well known in the Eastern Church than the Western one, of which I am happily at home in. I am most fond of Jesus' Mom, the Blessed Mary Ever Virgin, and that first conversion year I sniffed, snotted and cried my way through many a rosary with the soothing sound of Fr. Benedict Groeschel crooning the prayers through the headphones on my iPod. But Our Lady is easy. Most Catholics, in some way, love her!

I fell hard for St. Francis of Assisi, and doubt if I'd be Catholic today without his unrelenting wooing. May I say, centuries later, God's troubadour is still a charmer. Dorothy Day, who at this stage is still a Servant of God in the canonization process, informs me day by day, no pun intended. How can I forget the three T's, Blessed Mother Theresa, who stole my heart when I was very much a Protestant, and Therese, the little flower, who haunted me in Africa, urging me to think small, and do little things with great love. Our intentional community here in Lexington is called the Little Way in her honor. Certainly the Great Teresa, my dear friend, Teresa of Avila, drew very close to me, especially as I was writing God Alone Is Enough. St. Blaise, however? Insert blank stare here. Dude was a totally mystery.

Fr. Norman told us that St. Blaise was a Bishop and martyr, who is well known as a patron of those with throat problems because he is known for having saved the life of a child who was choking on a fishbone. Traditionally, the blessing of the throat takes uses two candles, crossed together and tied by red ribbon (ours were white ribbons, who know why.). With the crossed candles the priest or deacon says a blessing. I needed a blessing, and I didn't care if I had to swing a chicken around my head. Mama has work to do! Fortunately, no chickens were harmed on my way back to into God's pure, and wondrous hands.

I trotted down the aisle, full of hope. I may have sucked at church attendance and service recently, but darn it, God is good all the time, and all the time God is good. I happen to believe he's rich in mercy and willing to share. So there I was, Deacon James before me, with the crossed candle stick. My dear friend and Parish Priest Fr. Norman beside him, busy blessing those in his line. I felt surrounded by love. These were the words deacon prayed over me:

Through the intercession of St. Blaise, bishop and martyr, May god deliver you from ever disease of the throat.

Deacon James paused there, his eyes alight with compassion when he looked at me. And from every other illness, he added. He knew how much I've wriggler, and at that moment I felt the warmth of healing grace spread through me.

So why is this blessing so important to me? Is it because I've had strep throat twice since, September, and numerous viruses and infections? No. Well those matters were important, and I am happy to find a prayer/blessing respite, but more than that it was high time to bless my voice because I've been too quiet.

When I was with Raphael, I lost my voice. Not my physical voice, but my soul/spirit voice. I wrote a little, sprinkles of poetry here, a smattering of shiny prose there, but when your personhood is attacked regularly, it becomes harder to trust yourself. When you keep yourself deeply connected to one who lacks respect for your basic, most essential being, the most authentic you, and all your instincts and clearest impulses are blunted. My voice, when I met Raphael, was faltering at best. I was just growing into being a woman. In speaking like a woman. Post Raphael I was a mess. All the beautiful songs I used to sing were stuck in my throat.

When I say songs, I don't mean literal songs, though they too, ceased. I mean the music the breath of life makes as it soars out of you. I mean letting light and life pour out of you. I mean using your gifts, every gift, to serve.

At the end of the week, when I thought I'd be writing the next NPWitY chapter, I was busy dreaming. I visited downtown galleries on my lunch break Friday. I pored over artful blogs. I asked myself a lot of questions that needed to be clarified. I schemed and dreamed, and signed up for every free e-course that would help me with my holy mission.

Months ago I read a book by Rachelle Mee Chapman recommended to her lovely, winsome Flock. It's called Style Statement. I am a Sacred Creative. I believe and long for artful soul work, and it's time to use that voice, right here in cyberspace.

All week I felt afraid, mostly that I wouldn't be able to take care of my family. Now, I'm certain that God loves me more than the sparrows he takes care of, and his abundance is available. It's a love thing. God, in his love, cares for his children. Part of his care was the blessing of the throat, a blast of much needed healing. I am ready. To. SING!

More soon.

Blogland Security

2011-02-03T03:14:00.000-05:00

Hello Lovies,

I've had a strange few days. This weekend I discovered Raphael was reading my blog. He felt compelled to write me about it, too. If you checked out the blog then you may have seen I put up one of his messages. I was very angry at the time--it's officially one of the stages of grief, but I never enjoy being unkind. I think I wanted to expose him, unvarnished to the world, for his continued attempts to manipulate me. I've since taken his message down--one of the several he sent. He requested that I do so, but really I did it for myself. I have enough going on. I don't need to renew the unpleasantness of dealing with him.

That leaves me with an interesting challenge. He's probably still reading. Raga-d has always been a safe place for me. You may not have seen me physically naked here--God forbid!--but you've certainly seen my soul stripped down. Facing the prospect of continuing to tell my story with him reading along with you is daunting. I sure didn't picture him as being in my audience. I like to write unfettered, courageously, and with great love. The thought of him being here made me intensely comfortable. I felt I needed blogland security to keep me safe.

There really is little security in cyberspace. You can write,but you cannot control what happens to your words. I don't want to make this a private blog. Too many people stumble here by grace, and leave with unanticpated blessings. I can't seem to delete this blog. God always reminds me that these are not just my struggles, but his, and every cross I've borne here, he has been my Simon the Cyrene, helping me carry them. My security is God's love and providence, and his awesome protection.

It really does take courage to write, especially when you tell the truth. And the truth is tricky. You interpret it, and it takes a great deal of humility. Raphael thinks I'm deceiving myself. To that I say, I'm speaking the truth in love, though like all of us, I see through a glass darkly. But I pray every day for the light of truth. Every time I sit here to write, it is an act to breaking myself open so that light can pour through the brokeness. It's all about the light, and love. Any of my books will reveal that. They are not perfect. I did what I could. God used all the books, and that is a mercy. He uses Raga-d, too.

I love Raphael. You cannot turn of love that burned so brightly once upon a time. I do not like him. I refuse to hate him. He would be surprised to know that he rarely crosses my mind, and I place the blame for my raggedy life solely at my own feet, but those feet of mine are firmly planted at the foot of the cross. Every day I ask Christ for mercy.

All that to say, I made a decision. I'm going to continue to write The Naked Pregnant Woman and share it here. I will likely stop at some point, since I'm trying to sell the memoir, or I will finish and delete it if I get the editor wants to move forward on this. In any case, I know for sure that this book isn't a demonization of Raphael, or even my own attempt to cry victim. This memoir is good news for battered women, a testimony of the grace and resources necessary to find freedom. When I was standing outdoors, vulnerable, pregnant, and naked because the man who was supposed to protect me cast me out instead, the wonder was not that anyone could be so cruel, or that i could be so stupid as to let such a thing happen to me, the real treasure is that each time it happened I found extraordinary kindness to cover my shame. I was not left out there, with no help--no love, even from strangers. God used those strangers, and I hope to be a stranger and friend to cover another woman like me.

There is life after abuse, and joy, creativity, and great love, of God and self and remarkable friends like you all. No one can take the dignity you refuse to relinqush. I was, and am very fortunate, and even though it has taken many years, God has made a beautiful mosaic out of my life. I will not give away my dignity now, to Raphael or anyone else. The scriptures say we overcome by the blood of Jesus, and by our testimony. The Naked Pregnant Woman in the Yard is My victory dance. My song of praise to God, and my siren song of freedom to anyone who has been so violated.

My friend Joe May taught me the welcoming prayer. So, with open arms I welcome even Raphael here to read. I simply will not allow his presence to deter me from completing a holy task. Mind you, just because he is reading does not mean I welcome his commentary. I am required to love him, not to be a dumping ground for his opinions and philosophies. If you continue to write me, Raphael, be assured I will not read. If you comment here I will remove your posts. You will not subject my readers to your views. Get your own blog for that. If I find in anyway you have crossed a line, and my patience for some things is quite generous, know that I will not hesitate to get a restraining order barring you from contact with me. And that is that.

I'm going to work on chapter two during my lunch break tommorow and Friday. Hopefully by Saturday I'll have a new chapter up.

I love you all, and thanks for hanging in there with me.

mair

The Naked Pregnant Woman in the Yard, Chapter 1

2011-01-28T11:02:00.001-05:00

Okay, lovies, here's is the latest, awful installment. I can't believe I'm showing you my rough draft. And I do mean rough friends. Forgive me, but I'm trying to find my way here. It's a struggle. Thank you for loving me, and creating the kind of trust that makes it possible to share my worst writing. Talk to you in few days.

mair

CHAPTER ONE: My Name Is. . .

On the day I was born my father tried to rape my mother. My mother told me this over the phone when I was forty years old. I had called her that day because my first attempt to write a memoir had met with dismal failure, largely because I had no idea how to start the thing. I finally decided the beginning of me would be a fine launching point. All I needed to know was if she remembered the barest facts of my birth day.

Was it balmy that September night? Had the end-of-summer heat left her cranky? Was she bored numb? Or jealous that her sister,Patsy Jo, could still wear cute clothes, while her own small frame could fill a tent she was so swollen with child? I wanted to know if worry about labor and delivery furrowed her brow? How did you feel, Mama? I'd probe like an amateur psychologist.

I can be as melodramatic as a Lifetime movie, but to ask if Daddy sexually assaulted her would have never occurred to me. The truth shattered me.

I imagined how Mama must have looked that day, twenty-seven years old, seven months along in the pregnancy, her belly a not-quite-ripe melon. She was a pretty, yellow woman, with full, cupid's bow lips, and soft, but mournful brown eyes. I picture my father with less generosity, looking older than his years, his pecan shell colored skin glazed in perspiration that reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes.

We tussled, Mama said. Tussled, a soft word that made the brutality of him forcing his pregnant wife to have sex against her will sound like a playful romp between lovers. Her voice dipped when she spoke of it. Even now I wonder if her tell revealed that she bore the kind of shame I know all too well, or had her mama instincts subconsciously tried to shield me from the horror of my father's glaring defects? I didn't ask then, and doubt if I would now.

That is how I came squalling into this world, unfinished, weighing in at a little over three pounds. Mama named me Claudia. I didn't find out until I was nine years old that Claudia means "lame, but intelligent." I may have only been in grade school at the time, but I was nonetheless profoundly disappointed. Could anyone have consulted a baby name book, for heaven's sake? And the fact that it also meant intelligent offered no consolation. It was as if someone tacked that part on to make us Claudias feel better about being saddled with a name that heralded brokeness. Sometimes I think my troubles began right there, at the bestowing of a name.

My friend Sharon Ewell Foster once told me that she believes before we arrive on the planet we make a deal with God. I think of this scene taking place at his heavenly throne, that looks a little like the chair Abraham Lincoln sits in on the Lincoln monument in Washington DC, only God's is more luminous. His radiance is shrouded by gilded clouds against a soft blue sky that has never seen a storm, and I'm right there at his feet, sitting with my legs criss-crossed, my head inclined toward his feet. The love I feel pulling me toward him is an umbilical cord, the golden thread indelibly connecting us.

God lays the sorrows I will face out before me, beginning with my violent arrival, and that dreaded name! Next to it I see myself at fifteen months old, given over to a stranger. She is loving yes, my kindly great aunt, but I never return to my parents. I would mourn the loss of my family of origin, my mother in particular, for the rest of my life, but as a small child, being too young for words, my tiny shoulders would round in sorrow, and stay that way.

If Sharon's theory of life before life is correct, and there are many days I believe it is, I'm the one who signed on to be called lame. Of course, upon arrival in this world I would promptly forget, and find it a bit off-putting that I wasn't called something like Simba, the lioness who kicks everybody's butt. Hear. Me. Roar!

I tried to ditch my name several times. As a teen I dreamed of being Michaela, a lilting musical name. In my twenties I longed for an African name, like Malaika or Ayodele, because I found them exotic, pleasant to the eye, and a more than a little mysterious. Once, when I was twenty-six years old, I had a naming ceremony under the stars. I'd stolen away on a balmy summer night with a friend, a woman who'd seen her own share of name incarnations. Her name was Joy when I met her. It's Orah El now, and I'm certain I missed a few names in between. She was an artist, and had crafted me a beautiful bas relief with my new name, and the image of a proud African woman on it, with a serene face, and her crown of regal locks flowing from her upward tilted head. I see that piece of art now, as my first experience with an icon. Rather than it being a window to heaven, it was a mirror into my soul. Joy and her bas relief proclaimed that I was Seshine, an Egyptian name that reminded me of sunshine when I looked at it. Seshine means, "the lotus flower," for Joy saw that I could bloom in anything, including a heaping pile of dung. Sometimes I wonder if she wasn't some kind of angel, in my life briefly to remind me of the passions--the blood drenched crosses--that I said yes to before I entered into time. Who can really say?

What I can tell you is the night of my naming ceremony, when I returned home, Rafael, who you will learn much more about later, told me I didn't deserve an African name. Just like that I relinquished it to him. I was too afraid of him to keep my own, precious, beautiful, and newly name. I took my rage out on myself, the self Joy so lovingly revealed in her art work. I smashed that bas relief it to bits, wishing I could destroy the life I lived with Raphael so easily. Oh, to have my breath fade to nothing, like the spaces between the broken pieces of my icon. I still regret my violence toward that amazing picture of grace Joy created, and what's worse is that I would continue to hurt my most essential, most authentic self. I'd do it again, and again.

When Rafael decided to relent and give me a name, he called me Kai, which in some West African countries, means, "loveable." But it was me who picked the name, and prayed with everything in it he'd agree to it, and let me believe I was worthy of his affections--that I was worthy of anyone's. Raphael didn't find me loveable at all, but everyone in our life called me Kai, the one who is lovable. This too was a gift of grace, a sliver of hope in the darkest, most dismal time of my life. Sometimes I wonder if that minuscule pinpoint of light kept me alive in that dark, harsh season. It was very hard for me to stay alive those days.
A few years ago, I had my first communion. In the Eastern Orthodox and Catholic traditions, one is allowed to take on the name of a patron saint. I choose St. Mary of Egypt as my soul's mother. She was a fifth century harlot, whose life resonated with me for reasons it will take another memoir to explain.

You should have seen me on that glorious day in May, wearing all white, smiling with my whole being. Right there in church I spit upon Satan. Literally, that's part of the rite. I cried my way through the Nicene Creed, tears of joy, without a hint of sorrow on my countenance that day. When Father Leo, a dear Romanian priest so full of love it often spilled out of him in booming laughter, came to the part in the service in which I'd take on my new name, Mary, he looked me in the eye and pronounced me before God and witnesses Claudia Mary. I've been researching on the internet, he said. Claudia is a saint name, too. Now I was stuck with Claudia for life, and it would be a long time before I realized I was Claudia from the very beginning.

You may be wondering why this book doesn't have the name Claudia Mary Burney on it. Suffice it to say, I can be remarkably malcontent, especially when it comes to what to call myself. I just didn't see myself as a Mary, so I asked God if I could call myself Mair, because it just seemed more like me than Mary did. Mair is a variation of the name Mary, kind of like Maria is. He didn't seem to mind. Neither did Saint Mary of Egypt.

I visited Africa once and stayed for almost two weeks in Swaziland, a little country in the Southern part of the continent that's about the size of New Jersey. At a simple mission care point, on a dusty hill, I met a gorgeous little girl of twelve. Her name is Ntondo. In Siswati it means, "person who loves."

Ntondo looked at me, a stranger, having arrived in her country with a group of white people. They were used to seeing the white missionaries. A caramel skinned, African American woman was a novelty. What is your name? she asked me in flawless English.

It's Claudia, I told her. I almost said Mair, but since I'm often confused about what to call myself, I defaulted to the old standby. Ntondo must not have been thrilled with Claudia either. She looked at me, a serious expression on her face. To this day I have no idea why she did it, but she said, From now on, you will be called Ntondo. She gave me her own name. Her last name, too, letting me know I was part of the family. Her choice of a name told me that she could tell I was a person who loves. I'd have changed my name to Ntondo, legally, but it would have confused everybody in my life even more. So I tattooed my African name, not on my skin, but on my heart. I tattooed my little namesake's face on my scarred heart, too, and I still pray for her, the sweet, magnificent child who agreed in heaven to a life full of far more suffering than I would ever see.

You'd think I'd have settled this matter, but no. This is me we're talking about, the girl who changes names to the rhythms of all my life's shifting seasons. And you may wonder why I've spent so much time telling you about my names, rather than telling you that I am a mother, a writer, a Catholic convert and an emerging new monastic urban abbess, as well as a soul friend to many. But those are just facts. But when I say my name is Claudia; it means lame, but intelligent; when I say my name is Mair, a bad girl gone good; when I say I used to be Seshine, a woman child full of sunshine, who flowered in a very shitty life; and I used to be Kai, because despite the fact that I was denied love by a man who should have cherished and protected me, I found a way to find love my damned self, and it's just sad that I had to do it in such a stealthy way. And now I'm Claudia again, lame, but intelligent, and I'm okay with that most days, even though I still prefer Mair. Once I bemoaned my name to a woman I met at a conference, and she told me something I will never forget. She said, if you are lame, you will have to be carried.

So, here I am. My name is Claudia, in God's arms. Sometimes I'm a broken little girl he carries, a lamb on her shepherd's shoulders. Sometimes, I'm a woman, swept into the ravishing embrace of my divine lover. Be I child, or lover, I'm always being carried in his arms, broken, but held. That's who I am. That's what I agreed to be, on earth as it is in heaven. Claudia explains everything.

Good Grief

2011-01-24T02:41:00.004-05:00

For the last week I've been asleep. I am not being metaphorical. I've slept a week away with a knot in my stomach, a Ken shaped hole in my heart, and a head full of confusion. The doctor said I had a stomach virus, but I think, in my own way, I was sitting Shiva for my truly dead marriage.

When you sit Shiva you don't go anywhere. Your week of mourning absolves you from duty. You cover the mirror. Personal appearance means nothing in this sacred time. Your brave face can be saved for when you venture back into life. If you grieve well, you may find you aren't just wearing a mask of courage. You earned it, even though it cost a lot.

In traditional Jewish homes you light a tall candle and let it burn. My candle was my wounded soul, grazing the hem of Christ's garment, with the battered fingertips I hurt trying to claw my way out of sorrow. It's over. My marriage is really over, I thought, again and again, as the harsh reality buffetted me. Some people said I'd be relieved once I decided to move forward with the divorce, but I only felt sad, and that ache demanded expression, even if it had to look like a virus.

It's good grief, however, even if I only now realize that I have been indeed, grieving. Grief is necessesary. Eventually I will take off the garments of mourning. I will put my eyeliner and mascara on again. I will slide the frosted pink gloss across my lips, or maybe even the more dramatic maroon. I will clean the house, and put together the dining room table I got from Walmart, even though I swore I'd never buy assemble-it-yourself furniture again. I will create a life, the one I long for. God keeps giving me signs that this new life is Yes! Yes, yes, yes! It won't be easy becoming, but it will be good, because finally, FINALLY! I'm taking responsibility for the care and feeding of my life, which includes my peeps, my desires, my challenges, and my life's work. To hell, literally, with depression and anxiety, and this idea that I cannot do what is basic, fundamental, to live the life of abundance Jesus said he came for me to have. It's time to get up and uncover the mirror, seeing the beautiful stranger looking back at me. Hello, pretty lady, where have you been all my life? It's time to wash, and extinguish my desperation, beginning again. God loves me. I can do more than cling to a hem. I can hug my Beloved.

My friend Shanna sent me this poem, and the subject line for her message was: your full moon. I always loved a full moon, especially when it comes with gifts.

If God is saying yes to me, I'm answering the call with my own yes. And hey, sorry I disappeared for so long. I'll try to do better. Much better.

God Says Yes to Me
By Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Yes backatcha, God.
mair

How Is It Possible...

2011-01-11T04:40:00.001-05:00

...that ten days have passed since I blogged? I know I have worked a lot. Work can be consumning. Other issues challenge me, too.

I am really experiencing God in new, unpredictable ways. That alone is disorienting. Not only did I start reading The Cloud of Unknowing on my iPad's Kindle App, I also downloaded it from Audible, and listen too it, but dude! Dooooood!!! I haven't scratched the surface of this text. It's DEEP!

There's more. I'm grieving the end of my marriage profoundly, wildly experiencing all the stages of grief. I was particularly good at denial, until my dreams shrieked, "LOOK!" What I see breaks my heart, and of course it calls for deeper reflection. Why did I not see all along? How great my capacity for self-deception is.

I feel like I'm being overhauled. I can't sleep, or concentrate. Yet, despite my sorrow, I'm not as organically depressed as usual in the winter. Vitamin D and that light box works! So, being in some ways more awake and alert than ever, the hard work of building a life without Ken looms ahead, and I've got to step over a lot of debris to get there. I keepmtrying to get back here to you. Life keeps tripping me up, but I'm here now. I'm sorry a out all my mess.

Another good thing happened, after a prophetic blast from my brt Mari Lynn, I gave myself permission to write badly. It would seem God wishes me to write the memoir. Mari said stopmtrying to be cute, and name it The Naked Pregnant Woman in the Yard, and go ahead and deal with the domestic violence I've endured, and what I learned that broken, beaten, vulnerable women need to hear. So, I wrote last night, a whopping thousand words. This is miraculous, since the most I've been able to eek out for months has been eighty-three words (other than my inconsistent morning pages). It's really very crappy. Thanks, Anne Lamott, for
letting me know that's okay. I wrote in a very conversational style, as if I was sitting on my red sofa chatting with a friend. It really sucks, but it's a start, which beats the heck out of a stall. So, without further ado...

THE NAKED PREGNANT WOMAN IN THE YARD
By Claudia Mair Burney

Introduction

The Naked Pregnant Woman in the Yard? Now there's a title for a book. What's worse is I didn't use it choose it purely as a devise to pique your curiosity. I happen to be her: the naked... well, you know.
Wow. Did you see that? I didn't want to say the lady was, no is, me. I've been almost twenty years removed from those colorless, lost years, yet it's still hard to own my experiences during that stormy time. Even now I feel the inner scars from those days, imprinted on my soul like brands of shame. The scars don't burn or ache anymore, although at times they go numb. Most of the time I barely notice the unsightly lumps of unfortunate history I bear in my body. Time and a good God have done a lot of healing in me. I'm not whole, but I'm heartily grateful.
May I be completely honest? The truth is I never wanted to write this book. That doesn't mean I didn't tell this story more times than I can count. It would slip out in whispers during late night chats with intimate friends, or unintentionally shoot out of my mouth at lunch, landing like a bit of food on my coworkers, who politely hide their discomfort.
I blogged some of my story once, a spontaneous response to a triggered memory. I had been watching some talk show on television. The subject was domestic violence. I don't even know what was said to break the dam and release the flood of tears that poured out of me for hours. I only know one moment, like the studio audience, I was hissing and booing an abuser, and the next I back in that yard, alone, bewildered, and unspeakably vulnerable. I cried for hour, and then all over my keyboard, but I wrote. I had to.
Turns out that blog post, and a few other of my most painful stories, ended up in a manuscript one of my best friends and truest soul sisters, Mari Lynn Griffith, was shopping to a publisher. Her agent, Wendy Lawton read the early draft of SistahFaith. Later I met her at an awards banquet, and she told me what an honor it was the meet the naked pregnant woman in the yard. She had a visceral response as she read my story, she said. I was mortified, but once you've been thrown outside a few times with nary a stitch of clothing, your tolerance for embarrassing moments grows exponentially.
According to Mari, others who read my story, or heard it from her when she did interviews promoting the book, wanted to know how I fared in life after such a wounding incident. More poking and prodding from God and others to write a memoir followed. It was time to tell my story. All of it. So here I am.
That brings me to you, dear reader. At the risk of sounding like a tele-evangelist, I don't think you're reading this by accident. Perhaps you've found yourself in a situation in which you too have been tossed out on the wrong side of love, without a cloak of goodness to cover you. You wonder how you got there, and even more, how you can escape with some scrap of dignity leftover to build a new life with. Maybe you've been beaten. Repeatedly. Perhaps, as it was in my own tragic circumstances, all signs point to your inevitable death at your beloved's hands. You aren't the deer staring at the headlights. Baby, you're the one who can smell the rubber from the tires because they're about to roll over you. But for the life of you, quite literally, you can't figure out how urgent the matter is, and how you must get up and go. Now!
Maybe you think you're not that bad off. The assaults to your person aren't the physical kind. Perhaps the person you love the most in the world has changed your name to bitch, and made it their job to tell you exactly what breed you are. I've been stupid bitch, crazy bitch, and was fat bitch for a very long time. And yes, I know I just said the "b" word three times, which will shock some. But perhaps not you, because you've been called out of your name so often you've lost count. Not that it doesn't cut. It does, every single time, even the times you don't that you're bleeding.
Please allow me to apologize in advance. I wanted the writing here to be gorgeous and evocative: Toni Morrison meets Annie Dillard, with a little Anne Lamott thrown in to break the tension. Every time I sat down at my computer to write that way the words would flee, leaving me stupefied and blinking at a blank Word document. I couldn't even come up with a title. Mari Lynn finally snapped me out of my stupor. "It's called The Naked Pregnant Woman in the Yard, because that's what you are!" She's right. Mari Lynn is always right when it comes to book titles. And, she knows me well, me and my hard stories.
So if you don't mind that this memoir is not going to be a staggering work of literary genius, please keep reading. There's a lot I need to tell you, and it won't be easy. That's why I'm going to try to keep my words as naked of pretense as I found myself that day on a strange front lawn so long ago.
Everything you'll read here is true, but I'm going to change names and locations, timelines, and even the details of some events to protect the man who, ironically, did little to protect me. I suppose if you worked hard enough you could figure out who he is. Why bother? Rafael has reaped the harvest from the seeds he's sown.
What I'm going to share emerges from among my most painful memories. In some cases God granted me the mercy of forgetfulness. Other memories have been blunted, or erased by chronic depression which, over time, impairs all of one's cognitive functions. What I can promise you is that I will write with stark naked honesty to the best of my ability. Think of this as you would any good story, be it fairytale, novel, or fledgling spiritual memoir, it doesn't have to be factual to be full of truth.
With that said, sit back and relax as if you were in my living room, sitting on the red sofa, now worn and pilled. I'll begin with a little backstory. You should at least know who exactly who you're talking to before you see me with my clothes off.

So, what do you think, lovies?

Mair

The Year of Unknowing

2011-01-01T22:51:00.005-05:00

Every year, just before the new year, like many of my spiritual friends I seek God for a guiding word to accompany me on the journey. To be honest, I hadn't thought much about it this holiday season, as my shifting family life, work and--Lordy mercy!--seasonal affective disorder crowded my brain. Despite my dismal lack of focus I've had occasions to surf the net, especially in my post iPad life. Oh, how easy it is to consume web content now. And when I'm groovin' the ginormous in cyberspace, I don't think about the writer's block that's been ailing me. I was reading Chrstine Valters Paintners blog recently, and came across a thoughtful post about letting a word choose you, when suddenly the word "unknowing" seized me by the shoulders, compelling me to look it right in the face. "You've gotta be kidding, God," was my inward response.

I have to admit, unknowing sounds a little more ominous than peace, joy, or my personal favorite, love. It requires radical trust from go. Actually, it demands crazy trust long before you pack a bag and roll out with it. Now that think about it, unknowing whispers like a kind soul mama, "Baby, you don't need nothin' for this journey." But you know me, Mair needs a little hand holding, or at least a reliable guide for this trip that promises to be a trip. My companion will be Paraclete Press' THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING. I love, love, love their contemporary English translations, this one edited by Bernard Bangley.

I have read only a short compilation of passages from the Cloud, and that was years ago. I don't remember much, so essentially I'll be starting over. A little research today, via Wiki, revealed this:

"The book counsels a young student to seek God, not through knowledge and intellection, but through intense contemplation, motivated by love, and stripped of all thought. This is brought about by putting all thoughts, except the love of God, under a "cloud of forgetting", and thereby piercing God's cloud of unknowing with a "dart of longing love" from the heart. This form of contemplation is not directed by the intellect, but involves spiritual union with God through the heart."

Friends, if the idea of a cloud of unknowing sounds a little unsettling, that cloud of forgetting sounds pretty incredible. Last night, before I toasted in the new year, I said goodbye to 2010. It was one hell of a year that felt marked by more failure and fear than triumphant victories--though there were a few (Xavier University LA's Institute for Black Catholic Studies!). I'm not sad to see such a hard year go. I've lost my beloved. If I didn't see the failure of my marriage coming, the Lord did, and this call to unknowing sounds to me like an invitation to a rendezvous.

Tonight, as I consider contemplative prayer, which I assume is the heart of THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING, I'm thinking not so much of stripping all thoughts away, but rather offering them to my good Lover as if they were a gift. I imagine myself lying supine, like the Shulamite woman in the Song of Songs, dark and lovely, with a lover enraptured enough to lie all night between my breast. And I will embrace my Jesus, my house--not just my body, but my mental faculties--all stilled, as St. John of the Cross wrote so beautifully about in his luminous poem, The Dark Night. This, to me, is contemplative prayer.

The year of Unknowing? Bring it on!

In Love,
mair

Hold On to Jesus: Advent 2010

2010-12-24T23:58:00.000-05:00

It's Christmas Eve, one of my favorite holy days! I finally got that Advent wreath made--see the black eyed peas and black beans! And I decided on my ebony African bowl instead of the glass to encircle the candles and other elements I used. What a pleasure it was to light all the candles tonight: the purple ones as deeply colored as wine, for faith, hope, and love, and the pink candle for joy. In the center the white Christ candle burns brightly. We've gone to Mass to adore him, and oh, my heart is so very full.

Gratitude swelled in my soul, even on the way to church, as we trudged through the cold, trying to walk, carefully, on the icy sidewalks. At one point I raised my arms to the night sky. "O come let us adore Him!" Just like the Magi, and like Joseph and Jesus' mom, Mary, and so like the ragamuffin shepherds who were fortunate to witness with the angels, the miracle of God with us.

When we arrived there were no more seats, but I was as happy in the church basement watching the Mass on a big screen television than I would have been on the front row in the sanctuary. Nothing could diminish my excitement. During his homily, Fr. Norman asked us to hold the Baby--to literally open our arms and embrace him.

I could tell some of the few of us gathered in the basement felt a little silly holding what seemed to be nothing, but not me, who sang too loud, and stood during the reciting of the creed, just as if I were upstairs in the thick of things. I held that baby with everything in me. I held him because he wanted my love. A baby Jesus is delicate. A baby Jesus, like your fragile soul, needs to be guarded in your arms. Hold him tight! Don't let him go, friends. Protect the precious gift God was good enough to give you.

We walked home through a blizzard that we saw no sign of on the way in. It was a remarkable reminder that life can suddenly become very slippery. Conditions can grow cold and harsh so quickly, and completely unexpectantly. But all the way home I held that baby. I held him as I slipped and slid on fresh snow covered ice. I held him through the storm. I was tenacious and firm in my grip, but even if I stumbled, I think I'd have recovered, and kept on walking. I was holding on to Jesus, lovies. He is important--he is life to me.

When I came home I let the kids tear into the presents, while I lit the Advent wreath. Faith, hope, love, joy, and Christ in the center of it all. Somehow, winter storms and all, I have the strongest feeling that everything is going to be all right. My life may not look like it used to, but there is goodness and mercy dogging my heels. They will follow me all the days of my life. God help me to dwell in your house forever.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends. Christ has come. Hold him in your arms. Love him, and by all means, keep him safe, nestled within you. Be the mansion he will grow up in.

Much love,
mair

A Mansion: Advent 2010

2010-12-19T18:16:00.004-05:00

I've been working the midnight shift at the daycare--yes, it's open 24 hours a day. This is chaos on my sleep schedule, which is always suspect in the winter. All my rhytmns are off right now, hence the scant postings. I went to work last night and the house was an absolute wreck. When I returned home--will wonders cease?--it was still a disaster area. Will you believe the living Christmas tree, which is three feettall tops, is still undecorated, save for a little red bird and a single gold bulb? Aziza, no doubt the person who adorned the tree with these, is not good at waiting, Advent or no.

After Sunday dinner with our beloved community, I came home. I have to admit, the marriage problems are weighing heavy on me today. The lack of my beloved--small "b"--left me unspeakably sad. When I stepped into my messy living room, the Ken-shaped loneliness expanded until it engulfed me; it swallowed me whole. To keep the tears at bay, I started cleaning up the house.

I vacuumed the carpet. I put the decorations beside the living tree, and gave it a tall drink of water. I straightened the curtain rod, and righted the leopard print sheers. I fluffed the pillows on the red sofa. I did not work any soul miracles, but in some small way I felt better. Then, as it often does, my heart and mind went to Jesus, and waiting for him. I am waiting for him in so many ways. I simply do not know what to do in some important areas in my life, and I am especially baffled as to how to deal with this ache that feels unbearable today.

It is the fourth week of Advent, the Golden Nights before Christmas eve, in which the O Antiphons are sung. These prayers, beginning on December 17, all commence with "O", and address Jesus by a different title. They create the acrostic, S A R C O R E, which viewed backward reads Ero Cras, Latin for "Tomorrow, I come."

I am waiting for that tomorrow, which is so close, but today feels ages away. I am cleaning up my house to prepare a place to receive Christ. I don't just mean my physical house, the little, yellow, Sunshine Abbey on Old Georgetown Street. I mean the house, as shabby an unkempt as it is, that is my grief-heavied soul.

On this fourth Sunday of Advent, in the Anglican Communion, today's collect speaks poignantly to me:

"Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son, Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God now and forever." Lauren Winner, who wrote the forward to the Paraclete Press, wonderful little Advent book by Paula Gooden, THE MEANING IS IN THE WAITING, wrote simply in response to this collect, "I want to be a mansion." Me, too, Lauren. I am just a little shack, but I want to be a mansion with all my heart.

Come, Lord Jesus. Make haste to help me.

mair

Jesus is Coming! A Love Story: Advent 2010

2010-12-16T21:51:00.003-05:00

I don't know about you, but I used to be totally weird when it came to contemplating the second coming of Christ. If I'm honest about it--and I am--I have to admit, the whole idea of it left me with a smug sense of satisfaction. I belonged to Jesus, and would be whisked away to glory when he returns. I was shamefully proud. I almost felt entitled. That or the thought of it scared me to death, and my scruples insisted that I'd surely be left behind. Okay, insert martyr fantasies here, for surely I wouldn't mess up twice and take the mark of the beast. If it helps, I was a kid ruminating on most of these matters and those ideas were fed by a glut of endtimes books and even movies. This was before the Left Behind books were a sparkle in Lahaye and Jenkins eyes, and truth be told, I read those too, even though I was good and grown and my theology had... Let's just say evolved.

This Advent season, however, I'm neither puffed up with spiritual pride, nor fearful when I think of the Second Coming of Christ. I guess what I feel is humbled. The thought of such a mighty God, who could split the sky at his coming, would find humanity interesting enough to come here for the first time, let alone a second, well, it's just amazing. What's even more mind-blowing is his personal interest in me. He loves me. He knows me. He is sympathetic to the aches I feel, body, soul, and spirit. If he could give himself to me in the form of an infant, and be that vulnerable and humble, his second coming won't be terror at all, but consummation. It's the end of the romance novel or romantic comedy, when the hero takes his bride--after all they'd gone through--into his chamber to love her well. Close the door. Fade to black, and no eye can see, nor ear hear what God has prepared for those who love him.

Rejoice! Jesus is coming soon! The last trump will be playing a love song, and we shall be swept into his strong arms and loving embrace, at long last, for always and forever.

Rejoice!

mair

Rejoice! Advent 2010

2010-12-13T19:26:00.004-05:00

It's the third week of Advent. Half of this holy season is gone. The cute living Christmas tree that my son Kamau calls our "Christmas bush" has but a single red bird and gold bauble on it. My Advent candles are unlit, and wreath unmade. It looks like Advent has been an epic fail, but looks deceive.

The truth is, tonight, in the quiet of my bedroom, while a wicked sinus infection and cold has me bedridden,I'm aware of my longing for Christ more than ever. Thy Kingdom come resounds in y soul. Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

I read a wonderful, honest prayer about this third week of advent. I'll share it here for your benefit:

Dear Jesus,

It's halfway through Advent and I'm not sure what happened. I really wanted to make this a reflective and calm season, preparing for your birth and pondering how you came into this world in such a stunningly humble way. But it's so busy and I'm distracted and sometimes even short-tempered with those I love the most. Where are you in THAT?

I am discouraged and wish I could start over. But as I sit here in the rare moment of silence, I contemplate your birth. In a bed of straw, with the smell of manure everywhere. It's a mess in that stable ... and come to think of it, my life is a little messy, too. I suddenly see that it is not just into the mess of the stable but into my mess that you enter the world. You came into a humble place and that humility is often where I live my life - feeling guilty or distracted and wishing I were a better person. But if I stop thinking of myself and focus on you, I realize that there you are, waiting to love me, even though I have so many unfulfilled good intentions about prayer, so many desires of how to change this fleeting Advent season.

I can begin Advent today and make this season deeper by making room in my heart for you. I can take just a moment before I get out of bed in the morning and feel the empty place in my life I so often fill with my busy-ness. It is there I need you the most. Come, Lord Jesus. Come into that dark and lonely spot in my heart. You know what my needs are more than I do. Let me feel your love. If I only carry that thought with me each day, it will prepare me for Christmas.

Thank you, Jesus. It's not too late. You are waiting to enter my life today, where ever I let you in. Help me to open my heart in these remaining days.

That was a good prayer, wasn't it? And it captures so much of our very human experience. Here we are with our messes, many of our own making. We are sometimes sick, frail, or weak. We get often too busy to be present to each other, but this season offers us the chance to see how God loved us enough to be present. God cloaked his divinity in flesh and is with us. In this third week of Advent we can cast of our penitential, albeit royal purple, and put on the rosy glow of faith. This is the week in which we light our inner candle, the pink one! And we simply rejoice! The Lord is near.

I slept mist of the day, and woke up thinking about the electric bill. I worried. How in the world will I pay it all winter without Ken? And then I remembered the incarnation. If God went through the trouble of being human to save me, surely he can handle my utility bill, and everything else that concerns me, and you too, lovies. So rejoice. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. The Lord is oh so near, and even as we wait for him, he's already here.

Rejoice!

Waiting, waiting, waiting... Advent 2010

2010-12-09T20:59:00.001-05:00

Already it's the end of the second week of Advent. I bought a Christmas tree. It's a little thing, a living tree, still rooted in the pot. I can keep it if I want to after the holidays, or plant it outside. I haven't decided yet. I know I craved something different this year that everything that means anything to me is different. I wanted to have something alive I could nurture in my life. I haven't put the miniature ornaments on it yet, but the weekend is coming. It'll be a good time for resting, rejuvenating, and putting on ornaments.

I haven't made my Advent wreath, either. Again, I wanted to do something different. I bought colored tea lights, and a glass bowl I plan to paint gold. And I bought black-eyed peas. I know, it's hard to picture what I'm going to do with the legumes, but it looked good here. You can see that Ailina used rice instead of black-eyed peas in hers, and with the other elements she added, it turned out lovely. I'll post a picture of mine when I get it the way I want it. Maybe I'll use my pretty wooden African bowl. I usually pull it out for my Kwanzaa display, but like I said, I'm in the mood to do something different.

This Advent season seems more penance than joy to me, but that's okay. It is, indeed, a penitential season. I don't mind doing serious business with God. To be honest, it frees me from any false compulsion to buy, buy, buy, or make, make, make, especially to do so to fill the void that my fractured family leaves in my soul. The changes in my life have forced me to slow down. I don't have the energy to do anything but wait for Christ. I'm too sad to look for anything but his coming. Come, Lord Jesus! Save me from my own life.

The past week the readings have focused on John the Baptist. What an inspiration to strip all the holiday fanfare down to the studs. Mr. Locust and honey is all about preparing the way of the Lord. Ever since Sunday, when I flew into the church breathless and late (okay, church was over, but Father Norman was kind enough to give me communion and share the gospel), I've been thinking about the forerunner. He asks us to prepare the way of the Lord. How do we do it? How do I do it in my own life? What extraneous, unnecessary things do I need to give up, get rid of, or give in to in order to make the Lord's path clear and straight. I could probably go to confession again. Nothing like a marriage ending to bring out the worst, and I do mean worst in people. Frequent confession? Yes! And now that the days are short and my mood has bottomed out, I find it necessary to budget my time wisely. I have to take care of myself, especially since I'm working. If I don't tend to my health, I won't be any good to my children, my intentional Christian community, or of any service to any soul God may send my way. Oh, yeah. I bought a light box. It's called a HappyLight Delux. Already the kid's have figured out when mom is snappy, "Go to the light." Smart alecks! But at least I'm trying. The doctors have only been trying to get me to buy one of these for a decade. But I digress.

Preparing the way of the Lord is a big letting go. I release what isn't truly mine. Some of that releasing was not my first choice. I'd have certainly chosen to hang on to much that is not gone. But I have noticed that what is left is all I need. And now I have room for a few things I may really, really want, but couldn't have because of the clutter.

And you know what? I realized that I don't need much. Even my kids have realized this. It's gonna be an interesting Christmas.

Last year I was so much was about the Baby. This year the Christ I seem to be waiting for is the fully grown, GodMan, my Good Spouse and Savior. There are so many ways to wait for the coming of the Lord. I had no idea back in the day when I used to pore over books about the rapture. There are so many ways for Christ to come to us, and here I am, my heart bowed, waiting, waiting, waiting, and happy--no honored--for the grace to even want him so.

I love you, Jesus. Come, quickly!

And friends, I love you, too.

mair

Waiting in the House of Bread: Advent 2010

2010-12-02T20:17:00.001-05:00

Do you ever have those moments during Advent when all you can think of is sinking to your knees on the dirt beside the empty manger? Your shoulders may be rounded because you're tired. Your eyes possibly rimmed in red because for a while there, you couldn't stop crying. Perhaps Your energy is gone. You may even be relieved that all you can do is wait, because that's all you're capable of. And you're hungry, much more than you're ever satisfied.

But that manger you're sitting next to is in Bethlehem. Bethlehem, the "house of bread."

Today I feel like I'm starving, not just for Jesus, but for life. It isn't easy for me to watch and wait for Christ right now. Lord, have mercy, sitting here makes me feel helpless. I'm as cold as a corpse, and the animals in my life are troublesome and wild. This will be no season of serenity. The Mother of God labors right here in our filthy, unworthy midst, weeping as if Christ were coming breech.

The only useful thing I can do is to sit here, watching, praying, waiting, and doing none of these well.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Be the bread that will nourish me. Be the meal that will give me strength. When I have no faith of my own, feed me, good Jesus. Son of God, to be born in the house of bread, you are the sustenance--the Eucharist, thanksgiving!--that makes me whole. Come quickly, Lord Jesus, meet me on the fallow earth, where dung, and blood and lingering evil fouls the air.

I come lowly as a slave, empty handed, wanted nothing more than to see you born. I come to give myself to you, and I wait for you to give yourself to me. Don't you see how hungry I am, to taste and see that you are good?

Come, Lord Jesus. Do not delay.

I Am Waiting... Advent 2010

2010-11-30T21:59:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time the thought of Christmas would fill me with anxiety. Don't get me wrong. I love the season. Not as much as I love Easter. Yes, I'm that kind of weirdo, but I love the joy of Christmas, the music, the bright colored lights, and the giving, giving, giving.

I'm sure I don't have to get into how much is lost in the commercialization of the holiday (holy day!). You've all heard that before. But the last few holiday seasons I've made a greater effort to tune into Advent. It actually makes Christmas far more meaningful. See, you can't blaze through Advent in your rush to get presents you don't want to buy for people who don't really need them. Advent an invitation to slow down. Sometimes it urges us to simply stop. You ease yourself down on the dirt floor of your life, and sit quietly by Mary in labor. You can be the midwife to the coming Christ. Or you can wait with her for his birth as the shepherds did, or the animals. You can search the sky for the North Star, or search your life for any signs that his coming is near, then ask yourself what it all means to you.

Oh, what a winter this will be for me, my dear friends. So much is changing, even the rhythm of my intentional community. For the first time, we had our shared meal here at The Sunshine Abbey instead of Third Street House. I have to say, it was wonderful having the Samson's here. I made a pot of great northern beans, and a pan of chicken paprika and rice, and broccoli. An icy rain pelted the city, and this was extra comforting comfort food. We don't have a dining room table right now, so we all sat in the living room--some of us on the floor. Everything was simple. The room was full of love. I felt happier at home than I have in a long time. This was a new rhythm, not particular better or worse than our former rhythm. Just different. Much of my life will be thus. Different. I don't really need to judge it as anything more than that.

Advent, too, is a new rhythm. We've left ordinary time, and now our gaze is toward Bethlehem. We are waiting for the baby to be born. But our eyes our also lifted skyward. We are waiting for the King to come in the clouds in glory. And oh, my friends, we should also be looking within, waiting for Christ to be born anew in our hearts.

What are you waiting for? What needs a savior in your life today? I ask myself these kinds of questions everyday. Some of my musings go on Facebook and Twitter as I share Advent with whosoever will come. But some of the questions are asked in God's presence alone, in the silence of my heart. And the answers belong to him, as many other things in my life should belong only to him.

Yet, here you are, and here I am with you. So, I invite you to take these next few weeks to share in Advent with me. Sit with me at Jesus' feet. We can all be Mary of Bethany, rather than Martha. We can all do the one needful thing: wait.

"Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her." Lk 10:41-42.

In the tenderness of Jesus, the coming Christ child,
mair

Finding Water

2010-11-22T11:26:00.001-05:00

God always surprises me with his stubborn refusal to do things like I thought he would, or use what I think he'll use to help me. But I'll get to that in a bit.

September was coming. I always begin to fall in the Fall. And lovies, I fall hard. But this season was worse than others. I came home from Xavier and my marriage fell apart (I was afraid to tell you). Seam by seam I watched it unravel. I tried to stop it. And then I didn't. And then I did, but it didn't seem to matter, and then I got angry and didn't give a damn. The kids went to school and my brain seemed to scramble. I became so disorganized. I abandoned daily community prayer, unwittingly damaging my relationship to my community. And then I abandoned prayer period. When I started my job my immune system was assaulted. I had virus after virus, infection after infection. It felt as if the lights went off and God was gone. Winter came very early for me. In my soul I was cold, light was absent, and the ground of my heart was fallow.

It became clear to me that the only meager defense against the onslaught of awful in my life was prayer. I did not return to the community prayer that rooted me in love, friendship, and tradition. No, I dragged on alone, and begged God thousands of times a day to help me. Help my children. Show me what to do. All I could see at home was hurting people, and I had no idea how to help them. I ranted and raved. I stopped speaking to my Beloved Jesus, accusing, "You can help me but you won't! Where are you?" and then, a few days later, I'd beg him for help again.

One day, Nia, Abbie and I were at the library. Books have been fine helpers to me, and I begged, "Please, pretty please, Lord, help me. Send me some guidance." I looked up and Finding Water was in front of me. I'm going to confess, I tend to lean toward spiritual classics often written by people who are dead. Now and then I'll read a luminous volume, such as Mary Karr's Lit, or Kathleen Norris' Acedia. That ol' Ragamuffin's books always please me. My spirituality is catholic. Note that little "c." I'm into a universal church, but there are certain leanings that I have and they are definitely Catholic with the big "C." I have been a little snooty about books that don't fit that bill. The Artist Way was one of those books I've dismissed, even though I've known for years it's helped countless people.

I've had a copy of The Artist Way for years, and I thought, "I wish this was a Christian book." I can't believe I was so judgmental now, because the principles in The Artist Way are Christian at the roots, so simple, and friends, God is in the simple things. Finding Water, part of the series, is about the art of perseverance. If I needed one thing at that time it was to persevere amid all the chaos in my life. What surprised me was I found in her book the language of recovery. The slogans that have kept people sober for decades began to sober me, as drunk as I was on despair. "Let go and let God. "Easy does it." "Show up." "You do the quantity. Let God take care of the quality." I began to slowly release my grip on the situation, along with my illusion of control. I did not expect God to do what I could do for myself. I asked him to give me the serenity to accept the things I could not change, the courage to change the things I could, and the wisdom to know the difference. I asked for him to show me his will and give me the power to carry it out. I began to look for water. I found it in a communion chalise mingled with wine. I found it frozen like beads on a fallen leaf on chilly morning walks to work. It hid in beauty. I found it again bubbling in my dry soul. And yes, I found it in that book, and the tools Julia Cameron recommends: morning pages, artist dates, and walks! Baby, did I ever walk. And my healing began to emerge.

My marriage is still unwell. Very unwell. I don't know if it will survive. I have a lot of ashes leftover from the many fires that had to be put out recently. But ashes are useful. If you have a little sackcloth, you can sit in them and repent. If it's lent they make wonderful crosses on your forehead. Okay, those ashes come from last year's palm fronds. But what a wonderful metaphor: the ashes from your life as your cross, your sign of remembrance that you are dust, and to dust you will return. Your ashes indicate your deep, ever present need for God.

So, I've found my water, friends. I take my walks. I'm a little short on artist dates, but I'm working on that. I've started writing again, for fun, to feed my soul, and for editors to purchase! And now I've returned to you, asking you once again to forgive me for making such a mess of things. But most of you know I always return, a little worse for the wear, a little wiser. This time I'm twenty pounds smaller! And I'm ready to begin again. Advent is coming, the season of penance, and followed by Christmas, the season of joyous celebration, and frankly, very good eating, we'll begin our 3D journey again, at the new year, taking it up at the half way point where we left off. I have a wonderful prayer book to tell you about, that my community is excited about. Despite myself, life is good. God is good, as they say, all the time, even when you can't see that.

Thank you for staying with me.

Much love,
mair

TGIF, and a Little Praise

2010-11-05T11:28:00.000-04:00

I made it to Kentucky Clinic today. That's where I used to have my primary care. Yesterday I was soooo blessed to have called. I was hoping I'd be able to convince my former caregiver to prescribe me antibiotic eye drops without coming in, only to find that drat! I had to go in. But I didn't have enough money. That's when the triage nurse told me they had a financial assistance program. She asked me to come in first thing this morning and see a specialist about it.

I'm sooooo glad I did. I thought the program was a payment plan for a single visit, but it turns out I qualify to get regular medical care and pay only a $20 deductible. Can you say, "Hallelujah!?" I can, and I did! This eases a tremendous burden on me. I'm so thankful to the Lord. A few days ago, I read that miracles often happen in ways you don't expect. I'd gotten so discouraged about all this, but it turns out grace was present and active. Turns out grace is always present and active, despite all evidence to the contrary, maybe especially when there's all evidence to the contrary. I didn't get instantly healed from pink eye, but pink eye became the vehicle for me to receive some form of health insurance.

Why is it so easy for me to forgot God's great love? If we ask our good Father for bread, we aren't going get more rocks than Charlie Brown did trick-or-treating. I think it's time for this lil' complainer to start a gratitude journal to help me remember not only the blessings I can see, but when my faith bulb grows dim as it so often does when I'm buffeted by challenges in every direction, to recount the blessings and graces I've already experienced.

There's so much on my mind. I want to tell you so many things. One post at a time. For now, pink eye ointment, and a little rest after a looooooong, sleepless night. Thank God it's Friday, even though I so agreed to work all weekend to make up for the days I missed. I'm happy you're still on the journey with me, and do have a lovely weekend.

Much love,
mair

Do I Need Quiet???

2010-11-04T16:51:00.000-04:00

Years ago, when I was in love with religious "tracts," and passed them out--well--religiously, one with this poem by Alice H. Mortenson was a particular favorite of mine:

I Needed the Quiet

    I needed the quiet so he drew me aside
    Into the shadows where we could confide,
    Away from the bustle where all the day long
    I hurried and worried when active and strong.
    I needed the quiet tho at first I rebelled,
    But gently, so gently my cross he upheld,
    And whispered so sweetly of spiritual things,
    Tho weakened in body, my spirit took wings
    To heights never heard of when active and gay,
    He loved me so greatly he drew me away.
    I needed the quiet, no prison my bed,
    But a beautiful valley of blessings instead –
    A place to grow richer in Jesus to hide
    I needed the quiet so he drew me aside.

                                – Alice H. Mortenson

Sigh. I loved that poem so much, but today it kinda makes me sad. My spirit has so not taken wings, though I wish it would, and fly me some place tropical. Like, really, really tropical.

I've got pink eye now. My restful week of homeschooling and a shortened schedule began with me working full time Monday and Tuesday because we were short staffed at the daycare, and going real easy on the homeschooling. Tuesday night I took a nap after dinner. I thought I would give Nia and I the luxury of sleeping a little later our first homeschool day on Wednesday. I'm telling you, I was absolutely fine when I went to sleep. Three hours later, I practically needed a crane to open my right eye. How in the world did that happen? And here I am, Thursday afternoon, having been turned away from every low cost clinic my tired little feet could take me to today, with one, pink, runny eye that feels like ground glass is lodged in it.

I don't think I've ever worked a job in which I've asked myself almost every week, "should I keep this job?" God knows I'm grateful for it. Jobs are hard to come by--or at least they have been for me. My boss really works with me. She's lovely in that regard (and many others), but I keep getting sick. No insurance complicates matters even more. Before I could pop over to the doctor and get meds, or an excuse, whatever. Now the requirement of a doctor's note takes me on an epic quest. I won't get into the details, but trust me, I've prayed several times today alone to know what the answer to my dilemma here is.

What could a job that keeps making me sick mean? Is there meaning in it? I don't want to go all "The Secret" on you, but I keep wondering if there is something I'm missing here--something simple and basic. Could this constant deluge of viruses, bacterial infections, yada, yada, yackety, smakety, be like a neon sign saying, "THIS IS NOT THE JOB FOR YOU!" Unfortunately, that would make me pursue it harder. Beat me up, and I'd keep coming back. Or rather, the old me would, until I was beat up a few too many times not to learn to say, "OW! THAT HURTS!"

OW! THIS HURTS!

What do you want me to do, God? Every time I think I know your will some dynamic changes. Knowledge of what you want can be slippery. I think I've got some insight firmly in my grasp, only to realize I've been holding on to air. Maybe the poem is right. Maybe all this madness in my life--marital discord, sickness, money problems, chronic pain--all of it swirls around the quiet at the proverbial eye of the storm.And I need the quiet so much heart (and body) ache needs to build on.

What do you want, God? How do I find my place to grown richer in Jesus? Will you hide me in you, so at the very least, I can hear your voice? Will you help me do my job? I want to get better. I want to be well enough to write, and love, and heal, and mother, and teach, at work, and at homeschool.

Lord, have mercy on me.

Help me.

Mair

It's Rarely As Bad As You Thought It Would Be

2010-10-30T15:53:00.000-04:00

So, on Thursday I finally talked to Miss Sylvia, my boss. I talked to Miss Deonne first, to get my courage up. I should have so been fired weeks ago, but Miss Sylvia is oddly, extraordinarily kind to me (another example of God's grace). I told Miss Deonne about Nia, and the first thing she said to me was, "Your first call is to be a mother." Wow. Talk about hearing from God. Remember when I told you, right before I went to Xavier University, that my spiritual director told me to follow my desire? Well before I went to work on Thursday, I searched my heart as much as I could, and my desire was to protect who was most vulnerable in my present situation: my children. Following my desire was simple. I wanted to be with them, and help them to heal. But I also saw the value of working, and I also want to write. Badly. My desire is in all these things.

I wasn't sure how Miss Sylvia would react to this interest I have in working part-time. Daycare centers can be delicate in terms of balance. There have to be so many workers for so many children present at all times. Besides that, ideally, she needs a strong 2 year old teacher; that's why she hired me. Unfortunately I've been a hot mess. All the potential is there, but that's all I've been, potential. And there I was, in her office again, for yet another of my talks.

For the record, I've tried to be straight with her. I figured a no BS approach was best, come what may. But the thing is, I never knew what come what may would bring.

I always thank Sylvia for her generosity. I admit I'm problematic, and then I lay out what's going on. I told her simply that Nia needs me. Home life is messy for us Burneys right now, and I have to homeschool her. I just have to. I told her I want to continue to work, but unless I can go part time, either three days per week, or fewer hours per day, I couldn't stay with the center. Will wonders cease, lovies? She said I could work from 8 am-1 pm, Monday through Friday. Which is pretty perfect. All that worrying I did. Things are rarely as bad as you think they're going to be.

So, Nia will begin homeschooling on Monday. I'll give her a schedule and work to begin while I'm at the center, and when I get home we'll work together and I'll check over what she did while I was gone. I'll still put in enough hours at the daycare center to take care of many of our needs, plus those hours won't wear me out, and they'll give me more time to write. This is a big win, y'all. Yes, there will be less money, but I have a lot more peace about it. I believe God is in this decision.

I don't think everyone in my life will agree with my choice, but these are not people who are available to help me homeschool my child, or deal with the difficulties of our fractured homelife right now. In so many ways, scaling back at work is an act of faith, not just in God, who is slowly restoring my relationship with him that was sooooo damaged by the prolonged illnesses, it's also an act of faith in myself, in my ability to indeed homeschool, and be a good mother--CeCe, I haven't believed I was a good mother for a looooong time. It's an act of faith that I can have a good life--a godly life, when there is every bit of evidence to the contrary. Simplifying, and letting go and letting God, is an act of faith that, as my beloved friend Jon says, though awful things happen, we get better. We're supposed to get better.

I feel better. I really do.

I'll keep you posted.

Love,
mair

Like a Weaned Child

2010-10-27T20:44:00.000-04:00

I'm talked out. It's as if someone died suddenly, and I'm the one who has to tell everybody what happened. Over and over and over again. I'm trying so hard. In as much as I could, I've welcomed the anger, grief, bitterness, and pain, and found they're all things I've felt before. They pass. And I've welcomed gratitude, inasmuch as I can. I pulled on the big girl panties, and tried to ask the big girl questions, and maybe the biggest question of all: God, what do you want me to do? And I waited, listening for his answers. They seem to be, "take care of your health; take care of your children; trust Me." But really, it's hard to tell if that's God, or me.

I'm sick. Oh, Lord, I've said that so much lately that I rolled my eyes even to type it. When I couldn't drag myself out of bed today, despite a valiant effort, "take care of myself" was an easy choice. It was no choice. My body imposed a sabbath on me, and it was kinder than some. Cancer is the sabbath for a dear friend of mine. A heart attack for another. Last week suicide was my cousin's rest, or he thought it was. God have mercy on him. Poor Randy. I asked myself, "What is important?" This is vital! And I kept seeing my children, especially Nia Grace. I had to withdraw her from school last week because she was bullied and misunderstood so badly. She needs a mother so much right now, and God have mercy on me for asking if being a mother is more important than working a minimum wage job. I'm grateful for my job. Jobs are hard to get, and that one was, too. Here's irony, lovies. I take care of children. Do I sacrifice my own to do so? While I'm giving myself to the kids at the daycare center, four blocks away my daughter is at home, baffled, needing to homeschool, depressed, and sleeping her days away.

Who do I trust? Who is my provider? What is foolish? What is wise? What would love do in my circumstances?

The truth is, I can't hear God or my own answers to any of these questions unless I'm postured to hear. What do I need to even pray effectively? Lovies, Nia isn't the only one who needs a mother right now; I need one, too. I need God to be my Mother. At the moment, I'm overwhelmed by almost everything.

Psalm 131 is the scripture presently speaking to my heart:

"O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and too marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me."

In a way, I wish I were a suckling child, but I have to be a big girl now, but not too big! I'm still small enough to sit there with Mama, calm (finally), quiet, and trying my best to hear. Speak to me, Mama. Please.

I love you all. Thanks for being here.
mair

The Welcoming Prayer

2010-10-25T22:03:00.000-04:00

What do you do when you don't recognize your own life anymore? When the screeching voice leaving the awful message on the answering machine--the message that will undoubtedly be used against you later--is your own condemning voice? Where do you put the anger that swells and dissipates only to surge again? Nothing makes sense anymore. I'm hollow on the inside. My heart is a numb fold of scar tissue.

My friend Joe suggested I try welcoming prayer. The name is so friendly sounding, isn't it? Welcoming Prayer! You half expect it to greet you with a grin, a pitcher of lemonade, and plate full of brownies. "Come on in here, girl, and talk to Jesus!" I wasn't quite sure exactly what the welcoming prayer was, so after some clarification from Joe, I googled, and found this on Busted Halo:

" history of the Welcoming Prayer is a little surprising. It’s not an ancient practice, though it’s an ancient idea. Mary Mrozowski of Brooklyn, New York — a practitioner of Centering Prayer and friend of Father Thomas Keating — developed the method. She was inspired by Abandonment to Divine Providence, an early 18th century spiritual work by Jesuit priest and spiritual director, Father Jean Pierre de Caussade. Father Thomas and others saw the value of her little method and over the years it has been supported, fine-tuned and expanded, within the community of people who practice Centering Prayer and beyond.
If you are struggling with a bad feeling, the power of this little method is that it offers a structured way to embrace and accept it, so you can release it and move on. There are three phases to the Welcoming Prayer. You might go directly from one to the next in a single, relatively formulaic prayer sequence. Or you might find yourself staying in one phase as it does its interior work. Using Rev. Cynthia Bourgeault’s labels, the three parts are:

Focus and sink in.
Welcome.
Let go."

Let's just say, um, I'm struggling with a bad feeling, or twenty (thousand). And there's no sense pretending I'm not, because I am. And there's no sense hiding being a mask of piety. Nothing like the unraveling of primary relationships to strip you of pretenses. I didn't know I could feel such anger again. I knew it was possible once upon a time. I spent my thirties angry--the entire decade. But life was very different. I didn't think I'd revisit that level of existential pain again. I guess I was wrong about that. It may not be same stuff, different day, but lemme tell ya, different stuff, same feelings offers little consolation.

It's awful to sit with such terrible, negative feelings. They feel monstrous, like they'll devour me. To consider focusing on them and welcoming them frightens me. But maybe I'm giving them too much power. What is anger? Sorrow? Even humiliation? All of these I've felt before. And worse! All of them were feelings Jesus experienced as well. He isn't afraid of the either. Still, I resist. But it can't be worst than what I've got going on right now.

Sigh.

I'll let you know how it goes. And thanks for listening.

mair

Or Not

2010-10-20T11:23:00.000-04:00

So. In the last few days I've gotten many warm sentiments from you, and a few surprising connections. For example, a wonderful new friend has emerged I never would have met had not this blog been here introducing me to people I would have never known otherwise. I'm eager to explore this new potential relationship. Oddly, this person who enjoyed my blog contacted me via Facebook. Oh the joys of social media. A dear lovie--hi Heidi!--urged me not to isolate myself from the people who love me. Another--hi Patricia!--helped me to remember that my archives have blessed a lot of people who have stumbled upon these words. I wanted to hide. I wanted to reinvent myself. I wanted to runaway from all that is me. But the truth is, removing myself from the net won't take away a bit of the pain I'm in. It won't heal the broken relationship I wonder will ever recover (I doubt it, I'm sorry to say). And it won't assuage the fears I have about my future without this person, such a big part of my life, in it. So here I am, at least today. Nothing heroic. No promises; just you and me. I'm the one in sackcloth and ashes, with one running shoe on. If you don't mind it, well... okay. I'm sorry for Monday's drama.

mair

I'm So Sorry

2010-10-18T10:52:00.000-04:00

My dear sisters and brothers,

By the end of this week I'm doing something I've never done before. I'm removing my online presence. I am in the midst of a devastating loss, and feel a need to retreat and let my private life be private for a change. Not only am I not going to blog, I'm removing this blog. I've stopped blogging before, but left the archives here. I want to remove it now I think it's time to be over.

I will not be on Facebook. I will not be on Twitter. I'm sure at some point I will emerge again, but I don't know when, where, or how.

For those of you on the 3D Your Whole Life Journey, please forgive me. I entrust you to God's hands. I know you will do well. Carol is a reliable guide, and you can find her on the 3D website.

As for the rest of you, I'm truly so very sorry to end things this way. I thank you for these last six years. I love you, and will never forget you.

Grace to you,

claudia mair burney,
ragamuffin diva

The Way to the Heart: 3D Your Whole Life, Week Five

2010-10-06T18:34:00.000-04:00

Remember the old adage, "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach?" Well lovies, if you want to get to my heart, and a whole lotta other folk's, too, that's a darn good route to go. Week 5 of our journey is our own Eat Pray Love thang. But first we have to talk about the big "O." No, not that big "O." Not her either. I'm talking about obedience. Some of us have a problem with it. Okay, it's me. I have a problem with it. I rankle against it in so many ways. It's the little things that I don't even think about. Carol gives the example of exceeding your food budget (what food budget???) or driving over the speed limit (what speed limit???). But it's the little foxes that destroy the vine. Carol asks two questions as we begin this week.

Where does God have the finger of conviction pressing on your heart?

ARE YOU READY TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?
The shouting was for me, not you. But since I asked, are you? You'll get your chance over the next week. But here's the thing that's so encouraging. Carol writes, "We cannot understand obedience without first understanding that God loves us like a father--a good father who ask for our obedience so that we may grow into the people God wants us to be." Who does God want you to be? Can you imagine? Lately, the new me has come into view. I'm sad to say the pain free me is not in focus yet, but the smaller me is definitely in view. It wasn't that long ago that I could not have seen myself as anything other than fat. I thought, "This is probably it. As good as it gets." But then, something changed: me. That isn't to say that I don't have hard days, and bad habits to break. It means I'm beginning to change my mind set. The program is helping me "reboot" my life, changing the way I eat, and becoming more aware. For example, a few weeks ago, during lunch instead of eating a whole sandwich, I'd only eat half a sandwich. I'd have the rest of my lunch with that modification. I started eating breakfast every morning instead of skipping it. And snacks, usually something like cheese, or crackers (daycare food!). I switched a few bad habits for better ones. So, I was eating, but making better choices. I wasn't hungry, so I didn't feel deprived. What I'm lacking is more exercise. The exercise I get is what a person who lives downtown without a car would get.

Okay, how did that become soooo much about me? Back to our week. Think about love this week; Obedience born of love; meals prepared with love; shared with love; company savored. Pay attention to pages 117-119. Maggie has some wonderful suggestions for eating right, living well, and expressing love with food, even self-love. As always, know that you are prayed for, and loved, and supported. Let us know if we can help you along in any way. We are here for you.

Much love,
mair

God Speaks to Each of Us as He Makes Us:3D Week 4

2010-09-29T23:54:00.000-04:00

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by it's seriousness.

Give me your hand.

--Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Burrows and Macy

My gosh! Is it week 4 already? It seems like we've been doing this for a long time, but we have a long way to go, don't we. I have to admit. I'm woefully behind now, all my attention stolen by migraines and headaches. I knew it was really bad when I burst into tears at work and frightened my co-teacher. Fortunately it was during "Fun time" (what irony)--an indoor playground time. The children paid me no mind. My week was shaped by misery.

I've already told you about yesterday, and the message I heard as I was leaving that awful neurology clinic. This morning I awoke to a day with less pain than I've felt in weeks. I was not headache free, but it simply wasn't as bad as it has been. I went to the doctor at Kentucky clinic, and got pain medicine with nary a hitch. When I spent my bus money to fill prescriptions, a kind nurse gave me a dollar to get home. I had a lovely day at work, and for the first time in a long time someone said to me, Miss Claudia, are you losing weight? She could tell. I startled when I stepped on that same doctors scale that I stepped on and saw 204.6 lbs less than four weeks ago, and saw 195 lbs. With all this grace, I'm compelled to listen. With all the suffering, I was also compelled to listen. The good stuff just makes it a little easier. Well, a head that doesn't hurt so bad makes it easier.

Our memory verse this week is Proverbs 1:33: "But he who listens to me will dwell secure and will be at ease, without dread of evil." I don't know about you, but I sure do need to commit that one to memory! We are going to begin to learn to listen to our body's signals for hunger and fullness and record them. And the difference between hunger and thirst.

I must say, I'm on a new medicine, and it makes my mouth very, very dry. I feel thirsty all the time. So it will be hard to gauge real thirst. Weight loss is also a side effect of this drug. That may account for my glorious success! But I've truly been eating less, and trying to move more. It's not the most heroic effort ever, but just cutting my portion sizes, and making sure I eat small, frequent, more healthful meals has changed my life. It isn't just the medicine. In fact, the last time I took this med, I didn't lose a pound!

Anyway, here we are really being mindful as we eat, letting our meal become a contemplative, meditative experience. I wish you all could eat with my friend Terry. She has a real gift for this. I bet she makes Jesus so happy every time she feeds someone.

Okay, I'm off to my bestest friend Evette's wedding this weekend. Gotta pack. Be good to yourselves, and keep listening. I'll try to do the same.

xoxo!!!
mair

I Surrender All

2010-09-28T21:41:00.000-04:00

So, today, with great excitement and hope, I went to a spine and brain specialist to finally get some answers, and pain management. I tried to see a rheumatologist, but oddly, they've stopped taking new patients with fibro, RA, and osteo arthritis. Uhhhhh... yeah. Anyway, the nurse practitioner I see got me the appointment with this specialist. I had visions of someone who'd take me seriously. Visions of MRI's and CAT scans danced in my heads, and answers to what is really wrong with me. And oh the pain medicine that would get me over the terrible pain I've endured for more than a month, only I get there to find this paperwork mix-up, so I had to wait about five hours to be seen, digging for change in the bottom of my purse for vending machine potato chips, and reading Mary Karr's Lit, thankful I had the presence of mind to bring my iPod. A ginormous flat screen television played sappy worship music, and scrolled scriptures across pastoral scenes. I laughed out loud at Karr's wicked sense of humor, and gasped, hand to my heart, at her startlingly beautiful, poetic prose. Despite the wait and the endless headache, hope filled me.

It struck me as odd that the paperwork asked so many questions about mental illness, especially more difficult diagnoses such as bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and borderline personality disorder. It asked if I had a history of depression. If I had ever attempted suicide. I began to get a sinking feeling. Why is a spine and neurology clinic asking these kind of questions?

When I FINALLY saw the nurse I had to take a psychological test, which apparently I did not pass to their satisfaction. Perhaps I should have taken it when I hadn't been in pain for weeks on end. But it wouldn't have really mattered. It was my history that was the problem. Once upon a time I was so depressed I tried to commit suicide. This is no secret. I bear visible scars. I don't bother to hide them, or the truth about my past. This doctor saw me for three minutes tops, and deemed me unfit for any kind of narcotic, including one I was prescribed three months ago for a foot injury. He recommended physical therapy. It doesn't matter that the last time I harmed myself was fourteen years ago. The scars happened when I was twenty-seven!

When I was in my thirties I went to seminary to study psychology. I wanted to understand human behavior, especially my own, and I had to take several of those blasted psychological tests. One in particular told me I'd most likely die by my own hand within ten years. May I just say, that one kinda sucked. But I have to admit, some of those ten years were rough. I counted them down, baby, and that's a heckuva long count down. But by grace and grit I learned to choose life. Some nights, in my dark and awful winters, I hugged my arms to myself and did not move until any hint of a dangerous impulse passed. And the years moved forward, some slowly, some quickly. I am here to testify. I'm gratefully alive.

I left the clinic a little stunned; a little angry--no, a lot angry--and profoundly disappointed. It wasn't about the medicine. It was about being dismissed, once again, for a past I've done a lot of work to overcome. And besides, don't treat me like I'm crazy. That ain't the name I answer to any more.

Heavy-hearted I trudged back into the waiting room as joyless as a deflated balloon. I Surrender All drifted from the television. I shook my aching, throbbing head, knowing who I was supposed to surrender to, but having no idea exactly what he was after.

How do you surrender all? Does it mean you don't go to the doctor anymore?

I have no idea.

Come See Me!

2010-09-25T17:07:00.002-04:00

Come join me on a fun, insightful, and sometimes surprising journey into your very own, glorious interior castles! I'll be chatting about the treasure inside of you at Lexington Green's Joseph Beth Bookseller on Sunday afternoon, September 26, 2010. The Fabulous Tina Bryson is going to be there, too, talking about about her book, 10 Things Every Kid Should Know About God. If you're in the area, come see me. If you're not in the area, and want to drive, fly, or take a train or bus, come see me!

My Head Full of Birds: Week Three; 3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE

2010-09-22T20:48:00.000-04:00

"Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done." Luke 22:42

Oh, how I need this scripture now. Last week I ranted about my epic fail trying to work, and then had the pleasure of reporting on how blessed I was to still have a job. But I must say, sickness tries me. Hard. From the time I went to Breckenridge it's buffeted me. I turn to food when I'm discouraged. Last week was no exception.

In today's reflection Carol quoted the wise saying, "I can't stop the birds from flying over my head, but I can stop them from nesting in my hair."

Ummmmm... I'm gonna need to redo my hair, lovies. 'Cause I've been eating potato chips--bar-b-que ones--like they're going to stop making them and last week was my last chance to partake. I've been knocking back sodas. The first week I had NO soda at all. But oh last week's temptations in my weakness. I keep asking myself, "When will I be better enough to really exercise? Really do this right? Lovies, last week was so bad, I couldn't even find my books until this morning. Mercy!

I'm so encouraged however, by Carol's gentle voice in this third week reminding me of Jesus and his ever present aid in our time of need. She writes of our Lord, "Who is in a better position than he to assist us when we begin to weaken in our resolve, or even when we fall? Every day he sought out and accomplished the will of his Father. Can we not trust him to help us seek and do that same divine will? "Father, thy will be done."

I don't know how you all are doing. I hope you have had a week of triumphs, but if you haven't, you aren't alone. We're on a journey. Some of us are going to go slow and steady, while others will seemingly gallop right out of the gates and keep a trottin'. It doesn't matter which we are, as long as we're headed in the same direction, and to the same place.

I missed the whole exercise and watch your steps and physical activity thing last week. I stared my week nearly fainting at work, and ended it hobbling home from work with a cane. But God be praised. This week, while I'm ruminating on will power and making gradual changes, I'm going to take more time to look at Jesus, and gradual change into a person who spends time with him that's more intentional; less on the fly. I need Jesus. Last week made me see that so clearly. I need him so much, in so many ways.

How about you? Where are you? What are you doing? Are you gonna eat your veggies this week?

Much love,
mair

After the Epic Fail Rant

2010-09-21T19:30:00.001-04:00

Believe or not, and even I find it hard to believe, I went to work on Monday and all that happened was my coworkers and boss asked me if I were okay. Some people said they were praying for me.

Wow. Just wow.

Later that day my co-teacher said I was one of the best teachers she's worked with so far. That was very kind of her. I try to be creative. I like to bring a little magic to my classroom. Two-year-olds are very responsive to magic, though it's darned hard to keep their attention long enough to make it happen. It's a job all right, but my point is, it's a job that I still have.

I am so grateful.

I want to thank you all for your kindness. I've had a good couple of days. Yesterday, I found myself feeling kinda healthy! I knew without a doubt prayer was holding me up. Your prayers. I have a doctor's appointment on Thursday, and other than that, I think I'll get a whole week in with NO SICKNESS. I did have to have my son Kamau bring my cane to work at the end of the day, but that's all right. That's fibro, and it is what it is. I'm just happy I made until 5 pm.

And guess what? I'm gonna to have a Starbuck's Frappuccino and get started on that memoir tonight. Can you believe it???

I love you. Talk to you tomorrow!

mair

EPIC FAIL RANT

2010-09-20T01:44:00.000-04:00

So, I started this job at the end of August. I actually really like the job, but here's the thing. Since I've been working--three weeks and one day, and pardon my graphic details--I've had a bladder infection so bad I peed a horror movie; that's one day off; a debilitating migraine; a half day off; went out of town for a trip I planned prior to getting the job (and I got sick there); a day off for travel; the sickness turned into a sinus and ear infection; two days off; had a bad reaction to the antibiotics I took for said sinus and ear infection; more than half a day off; which caused me to get sick and dehydrated, and yesterday I had another debilitating migraine in which I almost fainted on the job in a classroom with four one year olds. My co-workers called the paramedics, so I went to the ER; another day off! Do the math, lovies! And I still have a headache! I still feel sick, but at least I'm plenty hydrated now.

More naked truth: I'm afraid to go to work tomorrow. I'm afraid I don't have a work to go to. I'll be tapped on the shoulder right after circle time and told, "This isn't working out." Trust me. I noticed. It's not working so great for me either!

I had an "episode" on Friday night/Saturday morning. I didn't sleep but an hour, and had a 7 am training to attend. All night I fought a monster of depression that insisted that I was too defective to do anything but write. "Defective! Defective! Defective!" it roared. "You can't work; this job is an epic fail, and you're going to get put out of your home again." I totally freaked out. I can't even tell you how bad it was. Seriously. I can't tell you, and I tell you a lot. Of course, I had a med change, and powerful antibiotics were wrecking havoc in my system, but you've gotta admit, all I described, back to back, that's just overload. I'm soooo tired. I want to help my family. I need to help my family, but this whole working thing is looking like an epic fail, and I'm feeling like an epic fail. I don't write that well, not enough to compensate for the potential loss of a job in a tough economy, even if it is minimum wage!

Oh, Lord. What am I gonna do? I spent the day in the hospital. I don't even know if I should go to work tomorrow or rest.

Dang.

Thanks for listening to my rant.

mair

So, I Need Some Advice

2010-09-17T11:47:00.000-04:00

Okay, so a publisher who I won't name is very, very interested in my story. She's particularly interested in the story of the abuse I endured and how I left my abuser. For years people have told me this is a riveting story, and for years I've insisted I didn't want to tell it, though ironically, I have about a gazillion times. But I haven't written it.

I've written snippets of it, and you've seen them if you read my blog post about the scars on my wrists--now covered by "love"--and the one about being thrown out of the house naked when I was very pregnant. I remember how I cried and cried when I wrote those, and now, I don't cry so much. Of course, one of those stories still has the power to devastate me; it involves my son and demonstrates how my instincts, even as a mother, had been dulled numb. I don't think I even told that one on the blog! In any case, it's the hardest of my stories. But that isn't what I'm asking about. I think I'm ready to write this thing, whether or not it'll be published, whether or not Raphael likes it, and may I say, I'm willing to protect his identity as much as possible. I don't know why I have to write this story, but I've been asked to do it too many times to ignore it anymore. I think God wants this. I want to give it to him.

But I don't know where to begin. Maybe I should trust that if I just starting telling the story, the awesome editor who has taken such an interest in me will guide me. Or maybe once I get going, the beauty I want to tell it with will emerge. It'll certainly be a different voice than the Teresa book. I think. See! I'm not sure. Maybe the voice in the Teresa book is the one! Just you and me; we've got a cup of tea in front of us, and just having a chat. Oh, but I love a lovely, achingly told memoir. What to do!?

Here's the last thing. There's a villain, of course, but there's also a hero. I want you to see more of the hero in this memoir, because it's really a love story between a ragamuffin and her Beloved, and the extraordinary measures the Beloved took to rescue her. If it isn't about that, I'm not interested in doing it. Who needs another harrowing abuse story just because.

When I was in Breckenridge I got to tell some of my story. A lot of it! As I talked, I remembered years ago when I was with Raphael, sneaking off to the Seventh Day Adventist bookstore just touching the Bibles and books. All my dreams of being a Christian writer--I thought--had been shattered. I told myself one terrible, honest day, "I'll never get to write for Jesus now." My heart was broken.

Fast forward about 16 years. When I was expecting my first copy of Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man, I was on the phone with BFF Marilynn Griffith the night before. I told Mary about standing in that store, and I burst into tears. I'd come a loooong way, baby. A loooooong way. The next day, I was IMing with my friend Stacia, and the book came. Once again I burst into tears, remembering my grief in that store. I was immobilized. It was hard to process that a package had come, a Christian book, with my name on it. I had survived it all, and I wrote something for Jesus!

Stacia had to insist I stop weeping into my keyboard. Ken took me by the elbow and tenderly told me to open it, and I stood there weeping, utterly amazed, and all I could think of were the words to the Magnificat. I was sooo not Catholic. I don't think I was even Orthodox yet! But there it was, the first lines ringing in my soul:

"My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,

my spirit rejoices in God my Savior

for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant."

I don't mean to imply that I'm anything like Our Lady. I had simply been given a magnificent gift, one I neither deserved, or had any right to expect, and these words fit so well. And now here I am, wanting to tell the story of why that day, holding that book, meant so much. I want to share exactly how lowly I was--and not in a good way--and how much amazing grace--unmerited, lavish favor--I had been given.

Maybe I should simply tell what happened: unvarnished; the truth. Begin there. See what God does.

What do you think? I'm sooo nervous, and anxious to hear what you have to say.

Much love,
mair

We Made it to the Second Week! WHEEEEEEE!

2010-09-15T14:46:00.000-04:00

Oh, look at us lovies! We are really something. First of all, I want to commend you because you are here! Though some of you are still lurking. Speak up! It's only us folks who support one another, and if we ever needed each other on a journey, it's right now.

This week's memory verse is one that will serve us as well as the first week's. It is Hebrews 12:11: "For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant; later it yield's the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it." That's the kind of fruit I want to eat several daily portions of!

This week is about being mindful of our movement. It will be helpful for those of us who can to get a hold of one of those pedometers to do so, or to simply begin to log in some daily exercise. Dr. Oz recommends a daily half-hour. That's doable for most of us, and look at it this way, you can break it down into ten minute increments if you want to.

I have to confess, last week wasn't so great. I started out okay, but remember that trip to Breckenridge? Well... I got really sick. Not fibromyalgia sick. Friday morning, as I was preparing to leave, I kept sneezing. By the time I arrived I had what I thought was a cold, which turned into nasty sinus and ear, infections, along with a wicked sore throat. I spent the majority of my time in Breckenridge asleep (but when I was awake I basked in delightful company. I was the baby in the bunch, and boy did those God divas ever inspire me! And may I say, I want to be like them when I grow up!) But I came home feeling worse! Finally, I went to the doctor yesterday, and spent the rest of the day and today mostly in bed. I'm emerging from my coma. I can almost hear, and my energy is picking up, though I'm mighty migrainey, so you'll pardon me if I take it a little easy until I feel better. I return to work tomorrow, and back to the program. On the bright side, being sick did wonders for my weigh in!

Okay, again, migrainy. I'm going to rest a bit. Sorry I've been so quiet. I love you!

mair

Hang in there!

2010-09-13T17:48:00.000-04:00

Okay, so it may be a little difficult to stay focused. Who's used to discipline? If we were all that and a bag of chips (oh! a bag of chips!), we wouldn't have to do this.

It really doesn't matter what your weight is, the fact of the matter is that we can all stand to be mindful. Forgive yourself if you're off track or lagging behind, and keep it moving. We're all being challenged, by stress, pain, sickness, problems at work, or issues at home, but we are changing our lives. So, if you're a little discouraged, you're absolved of all 3D sins these past five days, and you get to have a glorious Tuesday and Wednesday. Plan your work, and work your plan. Go to the 3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE website and enjoy the goodies there.

Breathe.

Hang in there.

You're exactly where you're supposed to be.
xoxo!
mair

I'm OUTTA here! Just for the Weekend.

2010-09-09T21:27:00.000-04:00

Okay, change of plans. I was going to take my computer and such on my weekend trip to PAAAARTAY with my friend Terry and a few ridiculously fabulous God broads. It's Terry's birthday! Hurray! If you remember, I've talked about Terry here before, and she gets a mention in God Alone is Enough--though they cut the best story about her. Anyway, Terry is my favorite person, second to Jesus himself, to share a meal with. She makes eating an art form. No, it's more contemplative than that. Eating with Terry is prayer. So, I'll be contemplatively eating this weekend in beautiful Breckenridge, CO, sans my computer. I'm un-moderating my comments, hoping no spammers appear, so you can still dialogue about your 3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE JOURNEY, although I lost the battle today with a caramel apple, and a small amount of ice cream (okay, I had a second helping of spaghetti), I'm just going to forgive myself, and keep going. The truth is, I'm really stressed, and having almost daily migraines. I think I need to get away and let some women bless me (see, T. I read the book, and really liked it!). I'm taking my 3D materials with me. Please pray for me, lovies. The reality is, this is not an easy journey. It's going to take all the prayer we've got in us. Like the scripture says, no discipline is easy. I'm sure you've all noticed that it's difficult, and maybe you too, have had your slips. We begin again. We go in grace. We keep one another in prayer, and keep it moving.

I need to hear from more of you, even if I'm not here this weekend. Where are you???

Much love,
mair

3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE!!! And So We Commence!

2010-09-08T07:18:00.000-04:00

Today some friends and I begin a journey to healing. I want to welcome my lovies, some of which are new to my blog. Thank you for joining me, Katherine, Leslie, Jean, Alicia, Christa, Ally, Tracey, Patricia, Alison, my sister Carly, Hugh, and Lois. And I can't forget Treva! She's the one who was gracious enough to send you all complimentary copies of the book and journal. I, of course, am Claudia Mair Burney. I prefer to be called Mair (rhymes with fire), but don't worry. I'm not going to bust your chops if you call me Claudia. We come from all over the united states: from Alabama, and Georgia; Oklahoma, and Michigan; Louisiana, and Indiana; Pennsylvania, Florida, Colorado, and New York. I'm not sure where Hugh is from. Perhaps he'll tell us. I'm sure we have lurkers from all over, too. Oh, the wonders of the world wide web. Welcome, welcome all! If I'm not mistaken, we are the first 3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE virtual group. This is going to be good!

Some of you have just received your books, and you haven't begun to dig in yet. You'll find that in the first few chapters are illustrious guides, Carol Showalter and Maggie Davis. Carol started the first Christian diet program thirty-five years ago--don't worry Carol. We won't do the math. Carol tells us the story of how 3D began. Maggie chimes in with her gentle encouragement to us to abandon rigid diets and to take it easy! The changes we make will be gradual, and based on sound nutritional guidelines. We want our changes to last, beloved friends. But don't worry. You simply cannot fail in this group unless you completely drop out. If you do one thing: decrease your portions, walk every day, embrace a scripture you learned in the devotions, you would have changed your life for good. So be encouraged. Maggie says in the book, "During this process you will learn not only to enjoy eating right but also how to know yourself in a deeper and more meaningful way. This is a journey as much as it is a destination. There will be speed bumps, stop signs, and detours on the road--but you will use this program to keep you traveling on your journey to eating right and achieving better health." And that's not all, but before I get to the really good stuff, I've got some other essentials to enjoying this program completely to share with you.

First, I want you all to participate. Comment on how excited you are, or afraid, or whatever! Your comments are so very important. I don't know you're here, or what you're doing if you don't comment. It's all right to be transparent here. Most of you know on this blog I'm Saran wrap. You can see right through me. I know some of your stories already, and I can assure you that I moderate all the comments, and I won't let anyone hurt you for your vulnerability.

Next, do the things that are listed in The Plan section for week 1: fill out the Initial and Quarterly Health Assessment, determine your Body Mass Index and Health risks, and do use the YOUR WHOLE LIFE JOURNAL every day. Carol and Maggie encourage us to use a pedometer to determine how many steps we take in an average day. I have to confess, I need to buy one, fast! But if you don't have one yet you can still exercise. Also, do something to pretty up your world. A fresh flower or a nice plant on the kitchen table would be lovely.

Finally, and most importantly, we're going to fall in love more deeply with God our Beloved. Read your daily devotions, and memorize your scripture verse. Pray for five people, daily, and don't neglect to pray for everyone in our group. I'll start us off with the 3D Prayer in the back of the book:

Dear Lord,

This is a new day
That means I can expect from your hand
     all I need to live.
Help me to know
Your grace is sufficient
Your power is overwhelming
     and your peace and joy are here for the asking.
I need you in so many practical ways, Lord
I need you to help me choose the right spirit
     at the beginning of the day
I need you to help me with my family
     the work I need to get done
     and the pressures that come at me
     before my eyes are even open.
I need you to go ahead of me every step of the way
You will do that
This day is yours
I am yours.
Thank you for loving me and giving me
     the gift of life today.
When I am ready to close my eyes
     at the end of this day
May I say with a steady voice:
I have loved you more today than I did yesterday
But not as much as I will tomorrow.
Make it so, dear Lord.
Amen.

Yummy! That was some good prayer!

There are just a few more things I need you to do as we begin. In the back of your book there's a commitment card. Sign it. It's like your contract. Let it encourage you to stick with this. Also, I want you to visit the 3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE website. You can find it here. There are lots of valuable resources available on the site. Use them! I also want to tell you about another helpful book that I'm using. You can order a copy from the 3D website. It's called SURRENDERING HUNGER. It's a wonderful devotional with daily readings for those of us who struggle with food issues. You'll find in it a straight-talking (love that!) meditation, and a prayer to give you strength and hope for this fantastic journey. It's written by Jan Johnson, and I promise you'll find her words insightful.

Every Wednesday we'll check in, but you can post a comment any day this week, at any time. I work from 8-5, Monday through Friday, but when I get off, I'll be around to post your comments. So don't worry if you don't see them right away. We have to do a weigh in, lovies. It's part and parcel of the journey, and it helps to track our progress, though we aren't looking at weight alone as the indicator of our success. But any weight loss program will require a weigh in. It's just how they roll. I'll go first, as horrifying as the thought is. You'll find that number in the comments.

So go, my dears! Exercise, eat right, love God, and bring some beauty and order to your life. You can do it!

Much love, and prayers for all of you!

mair

Frederica Mathewes-Green and a Shining jewel of the East

2010-09-05T23:34:00.002-04:00

Hello lovies,

Thanks for being so patient. Here's the wonderful interview with Frederica Mathewes-Green about her fantastic book The Jesus Prayer. Enjoy! And happy Labor Day!

Like many Westerners, I discovered the Jesus Prayer in J.D. Salinger's 1961 book, Franny and Zooey. At the time I had a raging crush on J.D. I would have had his literary love child, but God was kind enough never to let me near that man. But I'm indebted to Salinger, because I read The Way of the PIlgrim in my zeal. I remember saying the Jesus Prayer, and this was when I was a teenager--and feeling that rhythm take up residence inside much, much like I experienced when I left Divine Liturgies. The haunting prayers we sang remained with me for days. Sometimes, when I'm in trouble--and that happens far more often than I wish--I go back to the Jesus Prayer, because my mind can be blown like a fuse by whatever circumstance I'm in, and the Jesus Prayer is the only thing I can deal with. So, I thank God for it. But please tell those of us who don't know or have any experience with it exactly what the Jesus Prayer is.

The Jesus Prayer is a short prayer that asks Jesus for mercy; the usual form is "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me," but it can be a little shorter or longer, depending on what suits you best. The idea is to form the habit of saying it constantly inside, like background music for everything that happens in your life. It is a way to do as St. Paul advised and "Pray constantly." I think for many of us the exhortation to "pray constantly" is intimidating, and not very inviting; it sounds like having to say prayers all the time, which would be tedious. The simplicity of the Jesus Prayer allows it to become second nature, as natural as breathing.

How did you start praying the Jesus Prayer?

Like you, I gave it a try after I read Franny and Zooey, probably in high school. I tried saying the Jesus Prayer then, and at a few times later on in life, but I couldn't get it to "stick." You know, I hear people say that if you repeat any short phrase or word quietly, and shut out other thoughts, it gives a feeling of peace, but I have never had that work for me. Repeating a prayer (or any word or phrase) just seems boring and tedious. But the Prayer caught on better for me after I'd been Orthodox a couple of years, I think because I was beginning to grasp the dynamic power of repentance. I recently learned that the earliest "repeated prayers" of the Desert Fathers were prayers for help (for example, "O God make speed to save me, O Lord make haste to help me"). Prayers for mercy, like "Kyrie Eleison," didn't appear till the 4th century. But with the prayer for mercy came a more profound spirituality, because it was concerned not only with God's immediate power and ability to help in any circumstance, but with an ongoing relationship that has been damaged by our sins. And so it was for me; praying the Jesus Prayer didn't make sense till I had a better idea of how sin damages our God-connection.

Some people think ancient prayers like the one we're discussing are "vain repetitions." We know this isn't true, but how would you address this criticism, especially when it's offered by a very sincere Christian?

I was given this challenge once while leading a women's retreat for an evangelical church, and had to chuckle (privately) because we had just been singing praise choruses that consisted of nothing but short phrases repeated over and over. Obviously, if you mean it, it's not in vain. A husband repeats "I love you, I love you" to his bride, and she doesn't become irritated with the repetition. "I love you" means something more every day of your life. So it is with the Lord; words fail us, literally, but we can use simple, familiar words as a way to hold the connection with him, without having to always be thinking up different things to say. The phrase "vain repetition" appears in the King James translation, in the passage where Jesus is telling the disciples how to pray. Don't pile up empty words, like the pagans do, he says. Instead, pray like this: "Our Father..." That is a prayer most of us have repeated more than once in our lives!

In chapter two you give something like a remarkable capsule course in Orthodoxy. I was impressed at what you crammed into those pages! But I'm Western through and through, and found my soul's home in the Catholic Church. Many of my readers are Evangelical Christians. So, if the prayer's original context is found in Eastern Orthodox Christianity, how can we Western Christians benefit from it?

It was a dilemma for me, trying to figure out how much background to give. I didn't understand the life-giving joy of repentance until I had been Orthodox for several years. It hinged on re-understanding a number of things, including major concepts like the Incarnation, the Cross, Salvation--yes, there is even a different understanding of what "Salvation" means, in Orthodoxy. The more I learned, the more I was able to get into the swing of the Jesus Prayer. It makes a kind of sense, in its original context, that isn't immediately obvious elsewhere.

But of course anyone who prays "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy" can benefit from it! There's no requirement to be Orthodox. So as I wrote the book I tried to supply enough background information to make the original context accessible, but not to overdo it. At first I *did* overdo it, and had way too much background explanation of Orthodoxy. I just couldn't figure out where to tie things off. The editor and I decided to remove most of that material and save it for a different book, which I will write this year, a basic "Introduction to Orthodoxy."

You said--and I love this about your writing. It's so accessible--that the instructions for reciting the Jesus Prayer could fit on the back of a shampoo bottle: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me." Repeat. It looks like to me you could stick 'em in a fortune cookie! But it really isn't that simple, is it? Please tell us why.

I think it is for the same reason that the three little words, "I love you," have endless depth. A set of words like that stand almost as a token for something that is deep beyond all words. You can hold the words like a crystal and see the light slanting through from all different angles. One of the mysterious effects of the Jesus Prayer is that it helps us understand ourselves better and better as time goes by. There is nothing as beautiful and complex as the human person. Christ came to earth to restore us to the image and likeness of God, and the process of transformation is one of deep healing--which rests on the kind of deep repentance that is willing to let go and allow that change to happen. It's a paradox, isn't it, that "a picture is worth a thousand words," yet a handful of words can plumb depths that no visual image could capture.

So how do we begin?

The goal is to learn to maintain an inner prayer-connection with God all the time. But you can't begin to do anything all of the time; you have to start out by doing it *some* of the time. So there are two basic bits of advice. First, start saying the Prayer any time it comes to mind. A good place to start is any time you are bored and having to wait for something (waiting in line at a cash register, or waiting in traffic, that sort of thing). Take your time repeating "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me," or "...have mercy on me, a sinner," like the Publican in the Temple prayed. It makes otherwise wasted time not just bearable, but productive, in that it is turning you toward the presence of God.

The second bit of advice is to set aside some time every day to say the Prayer. Usually 10 or 15 minutes is good for a start. Orthodox Christians often use a "prayer rope," that is, a loop of woolen cord tied with 100 knots. Saying one prayer for each knot takes about 15 minutes. If you do this once a day, and do your best to block out other thoughts that come in and try to interrupt you, the habit of the Jesus Prayer will begin to take root. It is a very useful thing to have this Prayer already at hand, an integrated part of your prayer life, when life hands you situations that are challenging.

What can we expect once we dive in?

I always face the dilemma when talking about the Prayer that I do talk more about the mechanics of the Prayer than the experience and purpose of the Prayer. The purpose is to come into union with God. The purpose is to know Jesus Christ, directly, immediately, in a communion that is like a nearly-wordless conversation, in the midst of our ordinary daily lives. I think that those who have experienced this already can get, from that description, and idea of what to expect. Those who haven't perhaps should just keep in mind that we are not seeking a spiritual experience, but communion with a person, Jesus Christ the Lord. So there will be some similarities to any of the best and most loving relationships we have with persons in this life. It would be a mistake to focus instead on having mystical experiences. That is a well-known trap of spiritual confusion and evil, to get people side-tracked onto admiring their own spiritual growth. If you focus on the Lord, you can't help but stay humble, and humility is the safeguard against every kind of danger.

Any parting words?

I hope that many of your readers and friends will be moved to take up this beautiful prayer. It has been a great blessing to me. Before, I was sometimes frustrated in wanting to draw near the Lord in prayer, but not having anything particular to "talk about," or getting tired of talking and thinking in words. The simple Jesus Prayer keeps the connection open in a natural way, without having to keep the verbal motor spinning. It has been a blessing to Eastern Christian for about 1500 years now, and will be just as great a blessing for Christians of the Western tradition.

Thanks so much for this opportunity, Claudia! May God bless you and inspire you. Love, F

No, thank you! Pick up your copy of The Jesus Prayer at your local bookstore, or at amazon.com. And do visit Frederica on her website at http://www.frederica.com/

Peace!
mair

Today and the Terrific Twos

2010-08-30T23:13:00.000-04:00

So, I started my job this morning. Those two year olds really put it to me. They climbed on my like I was a Jungle Gym, and boy oh boy, do I remember now why that age group is called "the terrible twos." But they're also, and I'd dare they're more so "the terrific twos," because it's been a long time since I've been around such an honest, more loving group of people. Two year olds express their feelings, whatever those feelings may be. They may not be sophisticated expressions, but you know when they are happy, or angry, or affectionate, or frustrated. They are quick to forgive. Indeed, they did teach me a lot.

Fortunately, the lesson of being quick to forgive came to me sooner than today. As I read through recovery literature, specifically Al Anon, I realize the person who I've had such trouble relating to lately--the person who had become a veritable stranger, was sick. It's hard for me to be angry at a sick person. I find it difficult to sustain righteous indignation at a person who is already battered by their own guilt. The more I read, the more my heart softened. That twelve step stuff is powerful! I know the slogans are so familiar to us that it's tempting to see them as cliche, but when I let go and let God, God worked on that person. He didn't need my help or meddling in the process. When I told myself, "Easy does it," the drive to give up on our relationship dissipated, and I found myself with a little patience. Saturday, my Godbaby Ty got married to her first and only love, Isaiah. Love was in the air, and I found my fractured relationship healing by the words we heard in the church, the swinging jazz music, laughter, friends, and good food. It was like Babette's feast! By the end of the day, we were all dancing, singing, and in love.

As you know, my birthday is Wednesday. Books were mailed to my lovies today, and we'll begin our virtual 3D Your Whole Life journey. I'm also giving myself permission to be an artist. I'm looking forward to the new me. Or maybe I'm looking forward, in many notable ways, to the old me; the most authentic me; the me I've been all along, down deep inside.

Not much to report today, so we'll see what tomorrow holds. I'm waiting on Frederica to email me the answers for my interview questions about the Jesus Prayer book. I think you'll enjoy her very much. So do stay tuned. We have other surprises and guests in store, too.

May I say, I'm so happy to share my life with you.

In love,
mair

Coming Soon: Our "Your Whole Life" Journey!!! Yay!!!!

2010-08-26T19:33:00.000-04:00

Okay, so enough depression and sucky relationship failure stuff already. I went to the doctor today and got a suitcase full of medication that hopefully won't take me to darker, more despairing places (sometimes, they do. Have mercy, Jesus!). Of course the doctor said it's very important to get back on my exercise regime. Lovies, these joints of mine are strained beneath this weight I carry. But Wednesday, September 1st is my birthday. My birthday is just like the new year for me, and I like to do it big! Do you know what I want for my birthday/new year, besides art supplies and an Amazon gift certificate? LOL. I want to take a journey that will help me to take care of me. That's right. If I was on a plane, this would be me putting my mask on first, before I can help anyone else with theirs. But you know me, I like community, especially this one. I'm asking a dozen of you to join me in using this fabulous resource:
http://www.paracletepress.com/your-whole-life-the-3d-plan-for-eating-right-living-well-and-loving-god.html

Here's the website: http://www.3dyourwholelife.com/home.html

For the twelve of you who will dive in with me for 12 weeks, you'll receive a complimentary copy of Carol and Maggie's book, Your Whole Life, the 3D Plan for Eating Right, Living Well, and Loving God, and the journal that goes with it. Once a week, on Wednesdays, we'll chart our progress right here on the blog. I don't mean we'll do any weigh-ins or anything. Don't be skeert.We'll just share the journey, in much the same way that we always do. It's a way to testify of the goodness of God as he meets us on this road. If you sign up, you really do have to participate, but I don't think that's too much to ask. Oh yeah. I'll need your mailing address as soon as possible.

I would love it so much if twelve of you joined me. Please, please, please!!! So, who's in?

Much love,
mair

P.S. You don't have to be "substantial" in weight to do this. Thin doesn't always mean fit or healthy.

P.S.S. This weekend my dear friend and soul mama, Frederica Mathewes-Green, and I are gonna kick it about The Jesus Prayer. Don't miss it!

Guess Who Has a Job!

2010-08-24T17:10:00.000-04:00

Well, there are benefits to dragging your carcass out of bed and engaging life. This afternoon I got a call back for a job interview at a child care center. It's very close to the house, an easy walking distance. Apparently, God has a sense of humor. I'm going to be working with children.

Truth be told, this couldn't have come at a better time. I need to re-establish a more normal rhythm of life. I think it will be good for me. I think kids will be good for me, and of course, there is the satisfaction of doing work I know I'm capable of, and have years of experience doing. There is a dignity that comes with work. I've missed it, even though I've been writing for six years (work!), but I haven't penned a good word since I turned in X3 in February.

Not that I think a job will magically heal me of depression, but it will keep me busy. I made an appointment today to see a doctor. A few friends have told me, "It's time to see a professional." Not that I didn't know that.

So, there it is. I'll keep you posted. Please keep praying for me. I'm lifting you and your needs to God, even as I type.

love,
mair

3 Things

2010-08-24T07:04:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I'm totally stalled here. Blogging is my last ditch effort to climb out of depression instead of just lying down, but I must tell you, climbing out of depression is ridiculously hard. It's like saying, "snap out of it," to yourself, when you know good and well you can't snap anything, much less out of anything. Depression is the great numb-er. But I do have to live. I choose to live, and if I choose life, I may have to do a fine imitation of the living.

Yesterday, when I finally did sleep and wake up, I said I'd do 3 things. Three things are better than the nothings I have been doing. I don't really remember what they were now, but I suspect one thing was to get out of bed. Not only did I get out of it, I washed my bed linens. Nothing like fresh bedding to climb back into when you've exhausted yourself by getting out of bed and washing sheets and a comforter. I got dressed, too. This was a glorious triumph!

I know it sounds silly to talk about my three things as if they were a big deal, but if you've ever gone through a major depressive episode, you know I'm not exaggerating. I have to do three more things today. Oh, I can start by getting out of bed (once I finally get some sleep), but I also have do different stuff. I'd like to finish my friend Frederica's book. We'll be talking about it here in a few days (heaven help me!) I have to complete a project I've been tinkering with for over a year for someone. I feel sooo guilty that I haven't finished it. And it will be good to get it done, and into his hands. That will be one less weight to carry. Beyond that, who knows? I guess we'll see what the day brings.

Winter Always Calls On Me In the Middle of August

2010-08-24T06:47:00.000-04:00

Hey, remember that line? It's in my St. Teresa book, God Alone is Enough. So, not only do I have it in my very public writing, it's my experience spanning decades. Usually August is a slow but steady descent into a depression that would have taken all of Autumn to gain momentum. I suspect that the unraveling of an important--and that, my friends is an understatement--relationship gave me an early onset. It feels like dead of winter in my soul. My body is wracked with pain. I can't sleep, at least not at night. Hello, December.

Which begs the question, why am I flattened by depression in the middle of August? It just doesn't seem to make sense that it's "situational". Lovies, I have a LOT of situations, but few take me down as quickly as my current one. Then again, this level of depression always surprises me, as if when I'm well, I forget this exists. Only the fleeting memory of it remains. Much like childbirth. You forget how awful it is, and you go on making love with no protection. And maybe that's a fitting metaphor, since I went on loving life with no protection. As if this was all behind me.

Doctors have been telling me since I was a young adult that I would likely have to take medication for depression for the rest of my life. Honestly, I didn't mind so much. There was a time when I would have trusted medication, or at least considered it to be a necessary evil, but January's misadventures in medications still sting. I'm not as willing to play Russian roulette with my brain. The problem is, a sistah is laid low over here. In some ways, I'd welcome the reprieve meds would give me, even though it would take weeks to see any improvement. I'd pray, only I seem to have forgotten what prayer is--yeah, yeah, I know the St. Teresa book is about prayer, but you try reading in the dark night. While I'm at it, I may as well tell you I've also forgotten how to get out of bed. And get dressed. And act like I love people, or actually love them. I can't find my sunny disposition anywhere. No masks of serenity hide the numb ache that has replaced the pain in my heart. I want to curl up in a ball and watch television: lose myself in stories made by teams of writers young enough to be my kids. The only way that I know to pray right now is to silently lift this dullness of heart to God. He knows what to do with it. He's certainly had enough practice with depressives, even if he wasn't God.

So, that's where I am. Forgive me if it's arrogant of me to assume some of you may have wanted an update since the last thing I said was that I was heartbroken. The pieces are still all over inside my chest, and I'd advise you not to go in there. It's a mess, a little dangerous, and you could cut yourself on the sharper pieces if you're not careful.

I'm grateful for a God of mercy, one who is used to me and this beast called depression. When I can hear him again, I'll let you know what he says.

Until then....

mair

2010-08-18T01:26:00.002-04:00

My heart is breaking...

O, Freedom

2010-08-17T21:54:00.000-04:00

Oh freedom, oh freedom, oh freedom over me
And before I'd be a slave I'll be buried in a my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free

No more mourning, no more mourning, no more mourning over me
And before I'd be a slave I'll be buried in a my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free

No more crying, no more crying, no more crying over me
And before I'd be a slave I'll be buried in a my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free

Those spirituals are something, huh? They really preach when you need to hear the truth, even when the truth heralds one of the hardest things you've ever had to do. They strengthen you for the task.

Lately, I've been laid low. I'm facing some devastating personal crises. Without being specific enough to hurt someone I love dearly, I've said in the best way I know how that I see the error of my ways. I'm also open to being made aware of grievous faults that I may not be so clear about. But here's the thing. No one should have to express themselves while simultaneously verbally abusing the person they are supposed to be expressing themselves to.

I'm good at being abused. That's the horrible truth. I've failed in soooo many ways to protect myself, and it hurts me to say, to protect my children. I took too much for too long, and God help us all. But I came back from New Orleans changed, and part of that change was to not being a victim, or "slave", as the spirituals acknowledge. O Freedom is about transformation. It's about detachment from your awful circumstances, and it's also about tenacious dignity. Dignity is challenging me right now. It's saying, "Are you going to stand up for who you are, and Whose you are, or are you going to let someone treat you like crap again?"

I chose dignity, but my choice isn't as strong and powerful as I wish it were. The truth is, I'm flexing muscles I'd forgotten I have, but there are questions buffeting me like, can I just ignore it? Let it blow over? Is verbal abuse ever okay? And what exactly is verbal abuse? Because maybe I was abused so much, I see it everywhere. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm verbally abusive myself. Oh, I may not drop a lot of f-bombs, or say things in a combative way. I'm a woman of many words. I know how to use them defensively. I'm trying to be kind, yet I get swept up in the sea of anger some people around me are drowning in. This has to change.

It has to.

I want to be free. I'm going to be free. I'm choosing to live with dignity and self-respect, expecting people around me to respect me, too. But it ain't easy, y'all. Please, please pray for me, and if you have any wisdom to offer, I'd appreciate it.

And before I'll be a slave, I'll be buried in my grave

and go home to my Lord, and be free.

My Beloved....

2010-08-13T02:49:00.000-04:00

My Beloved,

It's late, and here we are again, you and I. The house is still, quiet. No one can see my tears but you.

I don't have to tell you that I'm unbearably sad about all this that's been going on. And I don't know what to do. I said I'd live in dignity, but some circumstances seemed determined to strip such any notion of dignity away from you. I've been here before. It is a wretched, terrible place. The hell hounds are at my heels, and a few have come close enough to get a few rabid bites in. I feel their paralyzing venom spreading through me, sickening me body and soul, and I can't help but think, "I shouldn't have let them come so near." Oh, Lord, teach me the fine art of holy detachment anew.

I don't ask where are you, because I know you're here. Nor do I ask where is your consolation. Such isn't always necessary on the journey, not when you're a grown up. One does what is right simply because it is the right thing to do. But that doesn't mean I don't need your help to do it, with or without a palpable feeling of your comforting presence. Beloved, I ask that that you would give me strength. I'm not strong, but you are. I'm not wise, but you know all things. I'm in the dark, and have no idea where I'm going, but you are the way. Keep my mind fixed on you. Help me to do what I must. Give me the grace to endure this trial. Forgive me for my failings, shortcomings, and sins, and help me to forgive those who know not what they do, and even more, to forgive those who know and do grievous wrongs anyway. Help them, Lord. They are especially in need of your mercy.

Way maker; Lover; Friend; my God; I need you. Help me, Beloved. Please.

Amen.

Mea Culpa

2010-08-03T13:28:00.000-04:00

Okay, so besides the fact that I love saying anything in Latin, the words mea culpa weigh on my soul today. A good translation in English is, "my own fault." Despite the most ardent narcissism many of us have, myself included, it's never a bad thing to own up to something you have done, or some way in which you have failed. But that doesn't make it easy, or less painful.

I have had many, many bad years. More than good ones. I didn't intend to hurt friends, loved ones, my children, but I did. Some people are big enough to understand these failings. Others are not, and I won't blame them for that. It's just that some people need more than others. It's a fact of life, lovies. I didn't have much to give. Maybe it seemed like I did. I showed up here almost five hundred times--far less than some bloggers I know, but more than others. I wrote books in which I was as transparent as Saran Wrap. That too, in some way, was giving. Hospitality of sorts. But there were years I languished in depression and illness. I wasn't a good friend, spouse or mother. It wasn't intentional, but I hurt some people who are important to me. People I love.

Mea culpa is hard to stare in the face. I think it's harder than I'm sorry, because it's a greater admission of guilt. And yet, maybe it's taken my recent, transformative experience to even begin to deal with my haunting past. A month ago what I'm dealing with now would have crushed me flat.

I was wrong, my friends. I said that I thought the dynamics had changed in my life, and some people were having a predictable reaction, but it's more than that. Some people are just plain tired of me. I can't say that I blame them, but I wish this wasn't so with all my heart.

Time to put those big girl panties on and face it all. It's remarkable how useful big girl panties are, isn't it? And it's okay, because see, I can't turn back the clock and start over doing everything differently. I can only do things differently right now. The same soft eyes of grace that I willing give to others, I have to use to gaze upon myself today. A lot was my fault. I did not mean to harm anyone in my actions, or lack of actions. I am truly sorry.

For the record, in the words that we say at Mass, may I say to you and all of heaven:

I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters,

that I have sinned greatly in my thoughts and in my words,

in what I have done and in what I have failed to do,

through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

Therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,

all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters,

to pray for me to the Lord our God.

And may the Lord have mercy. Hang on y'all. This ride may get a little bumpy, and just so you know, to spare some important people in my life any undue pain, I can't reveal exactly what is happening. I'm sorry for that. I'm sure you understand.

In love,
mair

Hope

2010-08-02T14:51:00.001-04:00

Endings can be hard. Beginnings can be frightening, but sometimes God sends hope in these thin places between your old life and your new one. It pads softly into your room when you're up wondering how many more sleepless nights you'll endure, pulls the covers up over your shoulders and whispers like a kind mama, "Everything will be all right." You hear wisdom in her voice, and you can rest.

Grace to you,
mair

God's Gonna Trouble the Water

2010-07-30T21:43:00.002-04:00

"Wade in the water.

Wade in the water, children.

Wade in the water.

God's gonna trouble the water."
-- African American spiritual

How do I describe being transformed? For that's what happened to me in NOLA. It began with the astounding Mass I told you about, where I felt like color had been given back to me. That week I found myself doing what had sadly become unthinkable. I danced. Lord, how I missed moving like that, the pleasure of bodily worship, without second guessing my body. And lovies, I was by no means cured of my fibromyalgia. Rather, I began to love this body, and allow it to experience joy unspeakable and full of glory on the good days. No, I was not cured. Before I left that magical city, I hobbled on a can again, but in so many ways I was healed. Thanks be to God.

I met my mothers in New Orleans, strong, able women who would no more allow themselves to be abused the way I have than they would be abusers of themselves, like I have been, as well. They are women of dignity, who do not walk with rounded shoulders and heads hung low. They are proud, yet godly. Life loving broads, in the best sense of the world, women of remarkable presence, who will soundly rebuke you for any hint of foolishness, and sooth those places in which you need the oil of sweet mercy in turn. I wanted to be like them, hardy and hard working, beautiful and serene, and in their own words, truly black, and authentically Catholic.

How do I relay to you what it was like to feel freedom; freedom from the shackles I bound myself with, and was bound with by others. It reminds me of a line in Ntozake Shange's poem, "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Not Enuf." She wrote, "I found God in myself, and I loved her fiercely." It is the same thing St. Teresa taught me about the Interior Castle, only so much more personal.

I met my sons there, and fell in love with one young priest-to-be in particular. He is soooo devout, and awkward, a baby bird who fell from the nest before his time, and still needs mama bird love, and a healthy dose of self-esteem. I recognized the ragamuffin in him. I stayed close to him, and his brokeness still haunts me. Oh lovies, how we need to encourage those among us whose wounds are so visible. And we need to encourage those whose wounds are hidden, too. Love goes a long way, and it heals, even if it doesn't cure.

The life I dreamed of was there in NOLA, and I lived it. I went to morning praise five days a week. This student led liturgy was real world prayer, and you had to be creative about it. When it was my turn to do a reflection, I became the woman who anointed Jesus' head, and washed his feet with my tears. I was so nervous, but when I said those last words, "He will remember me always." A thunderous applause and standing ovation met me. I felt like my contribution mattered. And oddly, I hadn't realized that I'd lost so much of a sense of doing meaningful work in ministry. It was marvelous.

I also went to daily Mass, and it nourished me. A kind, Nigerian theologian gave me a whole new perspective on what the Eucharist is about. You'll hear more of that later. I'm still processing it, and lovies, I still go to daily Mass. It had become habit in those weeks--a habit I craved, and I've stayed with me, and it still nourishes me, though I missed that soulful music and fiery preaching. Thank God for St. Peter Claver on Sunday for a hearty dose of all that!

I wore a few African clothes while there and now, every day I try to wear a little something African. It keeps me connected not just to culture in a very simple, positive way, but it also keeps me rooted in the experiences I had at Xavier. Wearing African clothes was common there. It was like I'd been plunged into a new world where black really was beautiful, and not the awful images that the media is saturated with.

Why all this black stuff? Because while I was away, a woman asked why I went to a historically black university. It was as if she had no idea that the year I was born, 1964, blacks did not have the right to vote. We were barred from many centers of higher learning. We could not sit in the front of the bus. It wasn't that long ago, and yet she took offense that I attended a school that begun in response to white's slamming the doors of education shut. All this black stuff is because black children are losing their sense of dignity, our girls reduced to booty shaking ornaments, and young men freely calling them names that when I was a child would have been fighting words. All this black stuff because my Godfather told me three years ago that if we don't preserve the stories the old folks told us, the freedom stories, they would disappear in a single generation. Can you imagine a Jew without the Exodus story? It's the story that anchors their faith, the one that informs them that they are God's chosen people. So close to the experience of chattel slavery and Jim Crow, I need to be a keeper of the freedom stories of my people. They are our sacred canon, our Exodus tales, and evidence that we are made in the image and likeness of God. Everyone needs to know this truth: we are all icons of God, every human being, red and yellow, black and white. But a lot has to be countered if black folks are going to remember this. And if I can't be all of who I am, truly black, authentically Catholic, because Evangelicals won't buy my books, or white people won't buy my books because black women grace the covers, I'm not free, and if I'm not free, freedom is fragile for us all. There's so much more to say, because slavery is going on all around us, and we can't turn a blind eye to it but I can't possibly say it all here and now. We'll just ease into this. But we'll get back to it. We must, because how can I be any servant of justice, and ignore the social justice issues that continue to plague our country, which involve people that look like me? Oh, if you only knew the affronts that assail me as a black woman on a regular basis. Justice for all, lovies, or justice for all is at risk.

Of course this restoration of all I am has changed everything. I've encountered resistance I was warned about, but it surprised me just the same. It's like a co-dependent thing. You change, and dynamics around you change. You go up, and somebody else may go down in response. And right now, I'm a little heartbroken. Thank God the freedom songs are holding me up. They were made for times of trouble, and assure you, "Trouble don't last always."

I was telling a new friend tonight that I've been singing, especially the spirituals. I'm trying to learn more of these amazing songs. The whole of a remarkable theology is in those songs. Wade in the water, children is yet another reminder of the Exodus narrative. It says, in your suffering, chosen one, you may find yourself deep in the water of your deliverance. The sound of galloping horses is behind you. The sand of land made dry by the mighty hand of God swirls about your back and stings your backside. You hear the water rushing to a close behind you. And before you? Parting waves, and watery steps of faith in which you will yourself to, as you slog through it, keep believing in the impossible. "God's gonna trouble the waters." So much is in those five words, and my waters are truly troubled lovies, but it's all God's doing. I just have to trust him, and keep walking through to the other side of it.

"Jordan's water is chilly and cold.
God's gonna trouble the water.
It chills the body, but not the soul.
God's gonna trouble the water.

Wade in the water.
Wade in the water, children.
Wade in the water.
God's gonna trouble the water."

with love,

mair

Image found at: http://www.thecollectionshop.com/xq/ASP/Jerry_Lynn_and_Terry_Lynn_Wade_in_the_Water_Morning/StockNumber.TWWADEESAP/ArtistID.1009/qx/Limited_Edition_Fine_Art_Detail_Page.htm

PW STILL LOVES GOD ALONE IS ENOUGH

2010-07-28T12:47:00.001-04:00

Here's the link, but I've copied the article below.
Oh, and I promise to blog about NOLA this week! Till then...

Answering St. Teresa's Call
By Kimberly Winston
Jul 28, 2010

In the midst of illness, Claudia Mair Burney discovered the writings of St. Teresa of Avila, and it was a wakeup call for her soul. Burney, a Christy Award finalist and mother of seven, had been laid low by fibromyalgia and seasonal affective disorder.

"I like to say that St. John of the Cross taught me how to lay my head on the breast of God in my affliction," Burney said. "But it is Teresa who flings open the curtains and says get up out of bed, there is work to be done."

Heeding that call, Burney wrote God Alone Is Enough: A Spirited Journey with Teresa of Avila (Paraclete Press, July), part spiritual biography (Teresa's), spiritual memoir (Burney's), and contemplative prayer how-to.

The book marks Burney's first foray into nonfiction after a string of Christian novels, and it is a title that seeks to make the saints more accessible to non-Catholics—one of Paraclete’s emphases. Burney, whose own spiritual journey has taken her from charismatic evangelicalism to Eastern Orthodoxy and, finally, to Catholicism, says Teresa has a great deal to say to Protestants.

"She says, I am just like you, and I have had times in which it did not seem my prayers got past the ceiling. She says, let's break prayer down into its simplest components and do whatever works for you. That is very liberating to everybody."

It has certainly liberated Burney, who said weaving her own story into the work changed the direction of her writing. "I always wanted to write about my very honest, messy spiritual journey and fortunately for me St. Teresa had a very honest, messy spiritual journey, and we could merge our lives together in this book," Burney said.

Reaction from fans—especially readers of her popular blog, ragamuffindiva.blogspot.com—has been positive, she says.

"Over and over they were saying, it has revolutionized my prayer life, or it is challenging me," said Burney. "So I think Teresa's gift to us is to make God a little more approachable and to make prayer, especially contemplative prayer, attainable."

The Weight of Shadows: A Weighty, Beautiful Novel

2010-06-29T17:33:00.000-04:00

There are two reasons why I loved my bff-lovie Alison Strobel Morrow's newest novel, The Weight of Shadows before I ever read a word of it: first, it's dedicated to me! Yes, lovies, Ali loves me that much. Okay, seriously, it deals with a woman in an abusive relationship. She knows I've been there, done that, a wear the scars, some of them physical, but most of them on the deep soul level. What a wonderful honor to be remembered by such an amazing writer, and such an important work. The second reason I loved this book before I read it is because Alison Strobel Morrow is a writer to watch for years to come, a storyteller along the lines of another bff lovie of mine, Lisa Samson, and she wields the pen mightily in this novel.

Right away you like the characters, and I must say, immediately the tension begins. I just knew that darned Rick would be trouble! And oh boy, was he ever. Alison takes you right into the pain, but she also offers the way out for most battered women: through a community--albeit sometimes a surprising community--of people who care enough to want to see you through to the other side. And that's where the real work begins.

The Weight of Shadows is, quite simply, superlative Christian fiction that will grip, move, challenge and delight you. Alison, girlfriend, I'm so proud of you. Well done!

Here's the stuff from the back of the book:

After a difficult childhood, Kim has built a successful life for herself. She'd leave it all, though, if she could be rid of her guilt over a tragic mistake she made years ago. When she meets Rick, she finds everything she needs, even a way for her to pay for her sins.

Kim and Rick's new neighbor, Joshua, knows more than Kim realizes about Rick, but Joshua has battles of his own to fight. Having already lost his wife and his job, he risks giving his in-laws the ammunition they need to gain custody of his daughter if he gets involved.

Debbie, who has saved countless women through the shelter she runs, has the power to help, but she might be as desperate for love as the women she serves. Ultimately, Kim must decide if her penance is more important than protecting an innocent life - and if she should dare leave Rick when he has the power to bring her hidden crime to light.

A gripping novel, The Weight of Shadows explores how the choices we make - and the courage we find to forgive - can touch the lives of others forever.

No Ways Tired

2010-06-28T00:58:00.001-04:00

"I don't feel no ways tired. I've come too far from where I started from. Nobody told me that the road would be easy. I don't believe He brought me this far to leave me."

Even as I type these words tears sting my eyes. We began this evening with Mass, or what lead praise dancer, Judy Lagier, called a BIG celebration. Big celebration is also the name of the Malian dance the graceful young women did to worship. I wish you could have seen them in their kente cloth covered leotards, and Ms. Lagier had to be most elegant (at 62!). There were drummers, and a choir so powerful the angels must have paused to listen. I was home at last.

The priest told us in his homily that none of us were there by accident, but rarely have I believed such liberating words. I've worn mourning clothes since I left Raphael, but tonight my Father who rescued me from that situation, gave me back my color. Tonight I feel like I'm spinning around in a Kaleidoscope with color exploding in my soul. I didn't put on the garment of praise. Not myself. My Father gently held out his hand and I simply handed over the spirit of heaviness. It was he who cloaked me in the grace colored, brand new gear.

For the first time in a long time,as the beloved spiritual says, I don't feel no ways tired. The story behind me seems so much less compelling than the one before me, and I feel beautiful through and through.

I don't believe he bought me this far to leave me.

Thank you getting me here, friends. I am so very grateful.

Love,

mair francis

Will You Join Me in My New Adventure?

2010-06-19T17:08:00.000-04:00

Hey lovies,

Last time I wrote I told you about the incredible opportunity I got to get a scholarship from Xavier University's Institute for Black Catholic Studies. I asked if any of you would be interested in helping me get there. If I may lay out things for you for a moment, a few months ago, I had a check stolen and fraudulently cashed. The time that it took for the for the bank to investigate was rough on my family. We got far behind in bills--we were far behind even if the check had not be stolen. By the time it was replaced we had a lot of fires to put out. Fortunately, we are now fire free, and I have to admit, we did a few things we enjoyed, too. Just a few. I really didn't think I'd be accepted into the program this year. And be given a scholarship at that! So, I wasn't prepared for this, although I'm thrilled. My friend Alison said God's fingerprints are all over this one, and it's so true, but I still a little help.

There are several expenses the scholarship doesn't cover, as well what it will cost for me to travel there and back. They're out of reach right now. I know God will provide, but most likely he will use people to do so. So, I'm inviting you, if you feel so led, to be one of those people. I'm getting a Master of Theology degree, with the hopes of being able to serve you, and my sweet Lord Jesus, even more, and hopefully better. If you'd like to join me in my new adventure, please click on the Chipin Widgit to the right. You'll be investing in my ministry by helping me get to Xavier, and to pay some fees I couldn't handle with out you. I'm soooo grateful.

Another option is you can buy an autographed copy of God Alone is Enough from me for $15.00 plus $5.00 shipping. You can send a check (quickly!) or pay via paypal. Email me for details at claudia.mair.burney@gmail.com

I have one more option, lovies. My friend Alison also suggested that I offer Sunshine Abbey soulcare appointments by phone or chat. They'd regularly be $40.00 for an hour, but you can get one for half-price, or two for the price of one. I'd have to schedule you after I return in mid July, but if you can wait til then, I certainly can.

Some of you will help me simply through prayer. Lovies, I sure do need it. I am totally grateful for any love-soaked contribution, especially if it's prayer you're offering.

Many thanks. I'm packing as if God is already doing it, for surely he is.

love,
mair-francis

BIG NEWS!!! In all caps!!! With lots of !!!s Make that VERY BIG NEWS!!!!!

2010-06-16T13:57:00.002-04:00

OMGosh, y'all! On ZZ's birthday I found out I was accepted into Xavier University's Institute for Black Catholic Studies. I's about to get me some edumacation y'all, and start on my Master of Theology degree, going three weeks each summer for about five years. Let me tell you what a hail Mary pass this was. About three weeks ago, I was in session with my spiritual director. I was going on and on about the awful stuff from my past that keeps showing up in my present. Lordy mercy things are a little (a lot) messy now in a sistah's soul. I love that he didn't tell me to "get over it." Of course, I totally need to get over it, but the fact is, that isn't particularly easy. So what he did was give me an assignment. Fr. Thul is a Jesuit, so his spirituality is firmly Ignatian. Those of you who are reading God Alone is Enough may have seen the endorsement of another Jesuit I know and love, Fr. James Martin. I'd started reading Fr. Jim's book, The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything. The book is about Ignatian spirituality, which the faithful to see God's action in everything. God IS in everything, and even before I read Fr. Jim's book, he'd told me on Facebook to follow my desire to do the Spiritual Exercises. So I got myself a spiritual director he recommended, and we began. Only I had all this crap in my head. So I had to start very small. Not get over it, but do one thing, and one thing alone.

Fr. Thul told me that I had to narrow my field of vision so that I could only see this one spectacular thing. I expected that to be the beautiful face of my Beloved. Fr. Thul pulled a fast one on me, however. The one spectacular person I was to look at was not Jesus, but myself. He said to only look at what is good about me.

Uhhhhh. Right. But I began. I'm still working on it, and it ain't easy!

Fr. Thul also told me, as an aside, to follow my desire. I want to work for Jesus. I have ever since I met him, and cried when I read Paul's words, "Let your women keep silent in the church." I want to work at my church and for my Church, and I want to study the things of God. I also want to be me, and see myself in the story of God, as authentically as possible. It's like my book cover. It could cause some people (poor, misguided souls) to think my book is "black", meaning that only black people will like it. But Thea Bowman taught me to embrace who I am--black and Catholic. She ditched her nuns habit for a dashiki dress. My daily habit is more like a black t-shirt and jeans, with a tattoo prominently (and permanently) scrolling across my arm announcing, "Christ still sends me roses." And too many bracelets. Let's not forget the saint bracelets. My publishing house put a black woman on the cover, because I, a black author, wrote it. They thought it suited me, and it isn't a "black" book, it's a book about prayer for anyone who wants to practice Christian prayer. Anyway, I left that spiritual direction session, and made two phone calls. One was to Lexington's seminary. Slam! The door closed so fast it almost blew my hair back. Then I called Xavier's IBCS's office. It was past the deadline. For everything. But oddly, my new guardian angel said, "Submit your paperwork anyway." I did, and against all odds, I'm in, and even got a scholarship. A good one. I start in eight days. My friends, THIS IS CRAZY.

So, I'll be gone for three weeks. I'm so excited I'm a little sick about it. And all pride aside, I'm taking donations from anybody who feels inclined to help me get to NOLA, and have the joy of actually eating. Things happened so fast, I could hardly prepare financially, but surely, if God has done all this, he'll provide.

I'd have told you about this yesterday, but my son got hit by a car. I know that sounds ridiculously awful, but the truth is, Kamau is fine. He's great lovies, and only ended up with a sprained ankle, and some body aches and pains. The Lord really is astounding in his goodness. His mercy endures forever. I wanted to tell you that I'm going to be going a little nuts getting ready to go to New Orleans, so bear with me. I'll keep you posted.

Meanwhile, enjoy the blog tour. See the post below this one, or click here.

I love y'all so much!
And T., I still haven't made it to the post office! :(
mair-francis
.

Goodness Me! Where Did the Time Go!

2010-06-14T17:42:00.000-04:00

Today was my baby's birthday, and we've been partying all afternoon. I totally forgot to tell you about the blog tour for God Alone is Enough. I've got a line up of fine folks, some of them among my favorite people. They'll be taking the book chapter by chapter. Think of this as the beginning of your journey with me and Teresa, whether or not you have the book (but do get the book!). Terry, your autographed copy will be mailed out on tomorrow.

Here are my tour stops:

June 15^th – Chapter One

1. Katherine Bolger Hyde http://kbhyde.wordpress.com/

2. Alison Strobel http://www.alisonstrobel.com/alison-blog

June 16^th – Chapter Two

1. Amy Hackett www.wesuckatlife.com

2. Brenda Robinson www.rubysdaughterbrenda.blogspot.com

June 17^th – Chapter Three

1. Letitia Damron (facebook note)

2. Wyatt Roberts http://wyattroberts.blogspot.com/

Rhonda Roberts http://www.rhondajeanne.blogspot.com/

June 18^th – Chapter Four

1. Cheri Edwards http://cheriparisedwards.blogspot.com/

2. Marti Pieper www.martipieper.blogspot.com

June 19^th – Chapter Five

1. Christy Lockstein http://christysbookblog.com

2. Joe Rutland http://lonestarfaith.wordpress.com/

June 20^th – Chapter Six

1. Leslie Bray http://discoveringdetails.blogspot.com

2. Alana Sheldahl www.morningcoffee.blogspot.com

June 21^st – Chapter Seven

1. Linda Leigh Hargrove http://bookcookcraft.com

2. Allison Patricia Simpson www.butterflywordsawordaptlyspoken.blogspot.com

June 22^nd – Chapter Eight

1. Leslie Nott http://www.bigthoughtslittlethoughtsbookreviews.blogspot.com/

2. Kelly Hawkins www.khawkins.blogspot.com

June 23^rd – Chapter Nine

1. Bev Cooke http://bevnalabbey.wordpress.com

2. Heidi Turner http://redemptionjunkie.blogspot.com

June 24^th – Chapter Ten

1. Melody Rose Sproule http://lovelilacs.blogspot.com/

2. Christa Allan http://cballan.wordpress.com/

June 25^th – Chapter Eleven

1. Kay Day www.loopdeloops.blogspot.com

2. Tracey Michae’l Lewis http://www.traceymlewis.com

June 26^th – Chapter Twelve

1. Niki Nowell http://nikinowell.wordpress.com/

2. Dee Stewart http://www.christianfiction.blogspot.com/

3. Sharon Ball http://www.sharonball.com

June 27^th – Chapter Thirteen

1. Patricia Woodside http://it-starts-with-me.blogspot.com

2. Paula Moldenhauer http://gracereign.blogspot.com/

See ya tomorrow!
mair-francis

Adventures in RBTE

2010-06-13T20:48:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I told you today I'd tell you about my time at RBTE, right? Well, I'll back up a bit first, and tell you that although good God things were happening, such as my announcing The Sunshine Abbey, I also felt the requisite jitters one feels when starting a new endeavor. Okay, so I felt craven fear. I was hoping I wouldn't have to admit that. Add to that the fact that I had few resources I had at the time, and a bout of epic self-pity colored my view until it looked like all my lovies were taking giant leaps while I was moving like molasses, I had all the makings of some soul drama. I felt so very unaccomplished, but the irony of this false feeling struck me as I was rushing to my parish one day, galley in hand, to set a date for my book signing. Um... people with books so fresh I had to give a galley to my deacon because my own copies were still at the printer are not "doing nothing." To say little of people who are setting up multiple book signings. But self-pity makes you think "poor me," no matter what you're doing.

The fact is, and this is always true for me. I want to be loved. I don't mind getting love from you for writing you good books, and for awhile, I felt like I hadn't done much of that at all and, Lord, have mercy, I thought I'd lose you. So I needed to get away from the ordinary, to see it more clearly.

RBTE was new for me. Just before I went, my stray check FINALLY arrived. I made an investment in some much needed urban abbess(y) type gear. Inexpensive things, but lovely ones. Lovies, I may have spent the winter and spring raggedy, but I was a fine, fine thing in Chicago. I had my girl, Michelle Pendergrass, writer and editor extraordinaire, with me. Nothing like having a bff with you when you need one most. And bffs have a way of making you feel beautiful. (Mich suffered a terrible loss after we returned to our homes. Her mother passed away. Please pray for my dear friend, and the peaceful repose of her mom).

My signing was on Wednesday evening, and my day started with meeting my editor, Jon Sweeney. He'd lost an AMAZING 100 lbs since I saw him last. I'd gained a heckuva lot of tattoos. We were an interesting pair visually, Jon and me. Later, I met a couple of Community of Jesus monks who were working the booth for Paraclete Press. I LOVED these guys. Brother Richard and Brother Benedict. They were so good to me.

Anyway, for most of the morning I floated around oogling books, until lunch time when we all filed into a ballroom to hear Sr. Joan Chittister's speech. OMGosh, my friends. Her quotes have graced my Facebook page many times, but hearing her speak was as good as hearing Phyllis Tickle. Such a commanding presence! And honestly, I felt a foot taller after hearing her. I got in line for her to sign two of her recent releases, The Liturgical Year, and Uncommon Gratitude. When I reached Sr. Joan I said to her, "I love your work so much. I subscribe to your email newsletter, and I always quote you on Facebook." She lit up when I said that.

"I love it when I meet my Facebook people!"

I told her that I too, struggle to find my place in the Catholic Church, being a woman, black, and tattooed.

She nodded, wisdom and experience as a lifelong Catholic--one who has been known to get in trouble about women's issues--shining in her eyes. "Any one of those could cause a problem." She scribbled her autograph in Uncommon Gratitude.

"I hope I see you again," she said. My heart rejoiced. "Before the Resurrection," she clarified.

I laughed, hoping so myself, and praying that God would make it happen. What Sr. Joan wrote in my book was, "To Claudia, in whose allelujah eyes, true faith shines." I totally almost cried right then and there.

We all have are heroes and sheroes, old and new. She is a newer one, and oh, what a pleasure it was to tell her what her words and work have meant to me. And what a grace to receive such kindness in return. It was more than enough, but God was good to me. I'll have to tell you more tomorrow, however. Aziza turns eleven tomorrow. My baby will go to middle school in the fall. My BABY!!! She's so LITTLE!!! Party stuff only Mama will be bothered to do calls.

At least it's cool. We've been roasting in our own juices, and today my parish priest, sneaky Fr. Norman, and his co conspirators Frank and Robert, somehow made a couple of window air conditioners appear at my door, onlyt two hours after he'd dropped me off from the signing and noticed the house was hot and stuff.

"God is good," he said when I thanked him.

"All the time," I said. And I mean that, dear ones.

More tomorrow. Until then! Grace!
mair-francis

Hello!!! I'm Back!

2010-06-12T18:21:00.001-04:00

I know. Long time no post, right? But I've been traveling (to Chicago) and doing deep, brooding things, including deciding on a new look for raga-d. Like it? I picked it to match my cover. LOL.

I've applied for graduate school, y'all. Yepper, I'm begging the fine people at XULA like a rhythm and blues singer to be let into Xavier's Institute of Black Catholic Studies in beautiful NOLA. I'm begging God with equal fervor. Oh, man. I want this so, so much. If all goes well, I'll be working on a Masters of Theology in a few short weeks. We shall see!

I've also been hatching a business, and the almost born Sunshine Abbey is looking be-you-tiful so far! I've ordered business cards, and even given it it's own blog page, but don't look for any content yet. I'm still working on that, but soon you can look for details, Ebooks and courses, and REGULAR blog content at thesunshineabbey.blogspot.com. Seriously!!!

I'm just popping in to tell you that you can order copies of God Alone is Enough on Amazon, and a whole bunch of other places online now. Or you can pick it up it at your local bookstore (special order it if they don't have it. Please, please, please!). If you happen to be in Lexington, KY tomorrow, June 13th, pop in at St. Peter Claver Catholic Church, my home parish, after Mass, and get yourself a copy from me. I'll even sign it for you, lovey.

On the 2nd of June I did a signing at RBTE: the Religious Book Trade Expo. It's sorta the liturgical church version of ICRS, where I will not be this year, a first since I've been published. Sigh. I'll miss it, and the friends I usually see there, but I made new friends at RBTE, a few of which I'll tell you about tomorrow, along with some other fun things. Soon you can expect to see info about my chapter by chapter blog tour, and a blog tour stop featuring books by a few of my friends. Also look for some other exciting blog love, a black nun doll, and picchas of my new garden. Finally (finally!), I'll be posting work-in-progress chapters of Take This and Eat: A Memoir. Hopefully, with all that content I can get back on track blog-wise.

That's all for now. I love you much, and pray for me, as I pray for you.
mair-francis

Publisher's Weekly Digs God Alone is Enough

2010-05-25T12:41:00.002-04:00

God Alone Is Enough: A Spirited Journey with Teresa of Avila
Claudia Mair Burney, Paraclete, $16.99 paper (176p) ISBN 978-1-55725-661-4
Immersed in her own “dark night of the soul” brought on by seasonal affective disorder and fibromyalgia, Christian novelist Burney (The Exorsistah and the Amanda Bell Brown mystery series) discovered the 16th-century mystic John of the Cross and, through him, his spiritual contemporary Teresa of Avila. In her first nonfiction book, Burney tells how Teresa taught her to pray in a way totally unlike the method she had learned from the “church mothers” in the Church of God in Christ congregation in which she grew up. She invites readers on a pilgrimage to “meet my friend Teresa” and offers a fresh take on the Spanish nun and saint. Employing humor and a chatty style, Burney gives readers a short, light course in contemplative prayer, one that is sensitive to the possible reactions of those who, like her, come from a Protestant background. Although readers with a serious interest in Teresa will need more than Burney provides here, her book is a fine introduction to the weighty realm of contemplative prayer. (July)

In bookstores this week, lovies! I sure would appreciate your purchase.

love,
mair-francis

A Rebirth

2010-05-24T07:37:00.002-04:00

The first winds of Pentecost began to lift my spirits after Mass on Friday. Nothing was particularly extraordinary about the Mass, at least on the surface. Mostly, the same words were spoken. I knelt and rose in response to the liturgy as I always do. I battled the same distractions. I took the body and blood of Christ into myself, and experienced the joy of doing so. But when I was walking back to the tea cafe, strength surged through me. Ah, lovies, this is why we soldier on, being not weary in doing well. I may have told you, but lately I've floundered in trying to find my place as my friends and loved ones have shifted into theirs. Lisa has the tea shop. Ken works there. Will is completing his dissertation for his PhD. My work seemed so vague to me by comparison. This is the danger you experience when you spend too much time looking at God's work in other people, and lose sight of what he is doing in your life. And though I knew being the abbess of our community was more the reason why I'm here, even more than working in our eventual house of hospitality, I couldn't grasp it.

These are the words that came to me on the way back from Mass on Friday, however: "I am the abbess of an emerging New Monastic community." I said it again and again. "I am the abbess of an emerging New Monastic community." This is my work. I go to Mass most days. Why? Besides the fact that I must! That is my work.

I write books, and even they have changed. They are more about teaching people to pray now. I swing open the doors to my heart, and open my spiritual ears, in order to offer spiritual direction, or what I call soulcare. Soon, you will see a Sunshine Abbey blog, and products such as eBooks and courses that will help you connect more deeply to God. It is good work, but lovies, I'd lost my confidence. That is, until a fresh wind of the Holy Spirit propelled me down Short Street. I feel like it's my birthday. I am reborn, and renewed.

I am grateful.

This prayer/hymn was in my inbox on Friday, and I want to share it with you. Enjoy!

love,
mair

Come, thou Holy Spirit come:
and from thy celestial home
send thy light and brilliancy.
Come, thou father of the poor,
come who givest all our store.
What is filthy make thou pure,
what is wounded work its cure,
water what is parched and dry.
Gently bend the stubborn will,
warm to life the heart that's chill,
guide who goeth erringly.
Fill thy faithful who adore,
and confess thee evermore,
with thy sevenfold mystery.
Here thy grace and virtue send,
grant salvation in the end, and in heaven felicity. Amen
- From a 13th century Latin Hymn

Thursday Morning

2010-05-20T09:51:00.000-04:00

So, I just made my first nourishing infusion. It wasn't the first lesson in my kit, but it was the one I felt was most needful. Nourishment seems to be what my soul (and body!) is yearning for. I attend daily Mass for daily bread, though honestly, in a lot of pain and after I hobbled there and back yesterday, I wondered what the big deal was. But things happen in the spiritual realm that you don't even know is going on just yet in your mind and body. Of course, mind and body are affected later. It's all healing.

The infusion I made is of nettles. These are especially good for women. I'll try to make the salves later today if I have time before dinner. Right now, I'm off to Mass, and then to the local Catholic bookstore, Benedictus, to give the owner, Patrick a pre-publication galley of God Alone is Enough. I'm hoping to do a signing there.

Wish me well!

love,
mair-francis

Tuesday Afternoon

2010-05-18T16:42:00.000-04:00

Hello lovies! I haven't chatted with you for a while. It's been chilly and rainy here in Lexington, and I've had some awful flares. In fact, I'm in bed right now feeling pretty ouchie.

Did I tell you about the herbal kit I ordered? Right now I'm just trying it out, but already I'm in love with it. I'm also in love with all the goings on on learningherbs.com, and herbalmentor.com. The Gallaghers are doing a fine job gently introducing people to using herbs for pleasure, and for medicine.

I'll admit, I've watched the videos in the kit, but I haven't made the nettles infusion or tinctures. I haven't even thought about the salves! I've really felt sucky as I deal with fibromyalgia and detoxing from the meds that were horrible. It takes time lovies, and I always miscalculate time. It's an ADD thing. Anyway, I've just begun this journey, and am ready to see the naturopath here. I think this is my way. I really do. I'll try it.

Today I went to Mass. I struggled to concentrate. I'm wondering now, as I think of how to nourish myself, how it is that the Eucharist nourishes me. I'm sure that it does. I'm just missing the dynamics.
I'm leaving plenty of room for mystery here, and surprises.

Ack! Too tired and achy to continue.

Much love,
mair

Lessons from the Flowers Numbers Two and Three

2010-05-14T19:40:00.003-04:00

I was coming back home from the tea cafe this evening, looking at the plantains growing in my yard. I've seen these wild ones all my life, but had no idea they were one of the best topical remedies for bee stings (and they help heal wounds and stop bleeding). I wish I'd known that a few weeks ago, when I took quite a tumble and got a big honkin' owie on my elbow. Plantain is also rich in vitamin B. I was thinking about how hardy they are, they'll grow just about anywhere there's dirt. Even though it isn't a flower, it had no qualms about letting me know how good God is to provide medicine in places we may deem highly unlikely. That was one lesson. There's another.

Because I had my gaze on the ground, I noticed the glut of clovers there. I don't know what they do yet, if they do anything medicinally, but what got my attention was right in the center of them a four leaf clover proudly preened over the other clovers. It was if it poked its chest out and stood the full length of its stem just for me.

I pointed this lovie out to Ken and Kamau who were walking with me, and Ken said to Maui, "Don't pluck it." So it's still there, heralding this lesson, even though it isn't a flower either: hope and good fortune can surprise me, popping up when I least expect it, including when I'm not even looking for it. And hope is a good, good thing. A needful thing, in this particular season of my life.

Love,
mair-francis

Lessons from the Flowers Number One

2010-05-14T12:37:00.003-04:00

I like to take Old Georgetown Street to Short Street to get to the Cuppa, Lisa's tea cafe. There are other streets I can take, but Old Georgetown, my street, is my favorite. I step past what looks for all intents and purposes like the hood, but isn't, past homeless Mike, who Ken and I often feed, or slip a little cash to (I wish I could give him housing. Lord, have mercy. We're working on that!). Then I step into a stretch of road full of beauty. The architecture is astounding. I don't know what you call it, but whatever kind it is, it's gorgeous. I cross the street because the buildings on that side are prettier than the artsy apartments that are no slouches, let me tell ya! One of my neighbors has created a hedge of tea roses. They are glorious. I always stagger a bit when I walk near them, a little drunk from beauty. Today, I decided to listen to what they had to say.

These tea roses were LOUD! And a little crazy, with their almost obscene profusion of blooms. They're are a vibrant pink, darker than the ones pictured above. They're almost hot pink! Their petals are wide open, revealing the crowns of gold in their centers. Their lovely generosity reminds me of children when they fling open their arms and invite you into them for a hug. "STOP!!!" the tea roses say to me, insistently. "Look at us! Aren't we grand? Smell us!" And I do. I lean into them and their sweetness rushes my senses, and they seem to sigh, contented.

I know it's cliche to, "take time to smell the roses." But it became a cliche because bears a common truth. Today I learned to stop. The world won't cease it's turning, and I can discover, no experience the exquisite joy of creation, including the beauty and amplitude of the creation that is me, body and soul.

Today, I'm beginning my gentle detox. No chemicals. Whole foods, mostly plants. Lots of water and green tea, though I'm still taking my medicine. I will stop and rest when I must. The flowers gave me permission to. I think I'll listen to them.

Much love,
mair-francis

Still Listening to My Illnesses (and God)

2010-05-13T17:32:00.001-04:00

All of today Migraine hogged the microphone. Migraines are so strange, like, I used to get this weird pain in my arm before one came on. It's an odd, almost tickle like sensation, but it's intense; it hurts. I found out later it's nerve pain. I get it all over my body now when I have a bad fibro flare. I wonder what that is warning me of?

Migraine is an incessant voice that demands my attention. "Withdraw," it says. "Rest." It does not take no for an answer. It pulls me into darkness, and what could that be saying spiritually? Today as I lie there listening, migraine (and my body) told me I need more water, not just now, but most of the time. I felt nudged me to dig out a remedy a woman who heals with herbs had given me. I hadn't thought about it in the longest time. I'm certain Merri saved my life a few years ago. She's been on my mind, a lot lately. So, there I was, spraying what she'd given me all over the room; essential oils, and flower remedies she blended herself, uniquely for me. I felt led to pray the St. Michael prayer. Lord knows I felt assailed by the enemy--and I don't mean migraine. The words are:

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.
Amen.

I felt promptly better. It isn't gone, but I am better than I was.

In the past few weeks, God has spoken the cryptic words, "Listen to the flowers," to me. This was before the anti-psychotic medicine that was making me crazy, so I know it wasn't that, and he's still saying it. I don't know about you, but generally speaking, flowers do not chat me up. I'm going to have to get very quiet in order to hear them. And maybe I brought all this on myself, loving St. Francis as I do, talking to those peonies as I planted them at Cuppa--they were mowed down, despite my prayers, when the drunk driver plowed into the building. Maybe I've always believed, deep down inside, that we're all connected to the Life around us--the flowers; the herbs; the earth and the sky; the pouring rain, and each other. I feel a storm brewing in my body way before I get the report from the weather man. Shoot, my body is a regular weather vane these days, with aching joints heralding rain, or snow, or a change in the barometric pressure. So, why couldn't the flowers speak in their own way? Stranger things have happened.

I brought an herbal medicine making kit the other day, and I've been taking the flower remedy tinctures Merri made. I mean, it can't hurt. I slather on this lilac scented aromatherapy lotion my kids made for me at a local shop. The ingredients are fresh and pure. The girls blended the lotion themselves, and even whipped the shea butter. It was a Mother's day gift for me. I'm trying lovies, to hear what God and nature are saying.

It's a start.

"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin;and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?" Matthew 6:28-30

Listening to Your Illnesses

2010-05-12T10:40:00.000-04:00

A few years ago I had the pleasure of seeing a Christian medical intuitive. She was a marvel, and after I saw her and did what she said, a troubling heart condition that needed immediate attention was speedily relieved. I remember how she stood close to me, and tuned into the Holy Spirit. Lord have mercy, she picked up on so many things that hurt me, body and soul. How I wish I could see her now.

I've told you about my recent experience with a physician prescribing an atypical anti-psychotic to treat my depression. This was NOT good for me. My thinking was, and still is, greatly diminished by this drug, even though I've stopped taking it. A few days ago, in a moment in which my lucidity was hard to discern, both then and now, I said to one of my lovies, "I think I should get off all of this junk, and just sit with my depression; listen to it; hear what it has to teach me." She thought this was a terrible idea, and largely the medication talking.

But the thought keeps haunting me, and seriously? how does one sit with depression? How does one befriend it, when it's caused so much pain? I imagine depression is a dark shadow, hunkering in a chair, a little scary. And there I am, offering it a bit of tea. Should I say, "So, where do you come from?" Will it answer, "Oh, just from some small neurotransmitter misfiring" or "From your trauma filled life after your dad died. Will it talk first, saying, "You're just wired this way. Always have been. Always will be." Is it even safe to listen to depression.

To her credit, I will say that my friend may be right about stopping all the medications altogether. Wellbutrin seems to be effective. But perhaps I too, was on to something. In times like these, Jeremiah wouldn't have been allowed his insightful Lamentations. He'd be on Prozac, and trust me, what he had to say wouldn't have been nearly as interesting. Don't get me wrong. I'm not romanticizing depression, although I can say it has probably given me roses on more than a few ocassions. I'm just saying that a long time ago I was taught by a very wise, earthy woman that the wound reveals the cure. Perhaps depression is trying to say "This is your life, and all it's sorrows. Don't repress the sadness that is one of the most real things in your life. Feel, and let yourself be human. Then you will heal."

Which brings me to another thing. I saw Sara Miles recently, and she talked about healing. She said, "Jesus doesn't cure cancer." And she went on to list a lot of other things that he doesn't cure. Of course my mind rankled at this. Then she said, "But he heals cancer." And she went on with the same list naming what he heals. This confirmed something I knew, but have spent a good deal of time acting like I didn't. I stood at my brothers death bed, as his organs failed, one by one. He was awake, but unconscious. In that dreamy state between the living and the dead, I could see Sister Death, who St. Francis spoke so lovingly of, taking him to Jesus. Death was his healing; a mystery, not to be explained, just experienced. I visited with another dying man years ago. He said, "I know God is able to heal me. Even if he doesn't, he's able." He said this with a smile and a faith that I've found to be rare in this world. It is the kind of faith that says, "though he slay me, I will trust him."

My friend Carole says fibromyalgia is a disease of being stuck. I don't know about that, but I'm willing to listen to it, and I hope to hear what it too, has to say to me. Because listening or not, Fibromyalgia is doing what it does, making me hurt, and not just physically. If I'm stuck, and medication isn't helping me, I'd rather find out what's really going on, and move forward.

What say ye, my lovies? What seemingly negative thing in your life are you listening to? Or what thing are you afraid to listen to?

love,
mair-francis

The Fifth Wednesday of Eastertide

2010-05-06T04:44:00.000-04:00

In truth, I missed the Mass. My head hurt so bad, ever since I'd awakened Wednesday morning. The migraine medicine only gave me a brief respite, but it never truly left. It slouched in some corner in my head, scowling, and giving me sinister stares. I ~~couldn't~~ can't think.

In the past week--a mere seven days, I've had excruciating migraines, visited the emergency room, stopped a medication cold turkey that is recommended to be tapered off, started another--an anti-psychotic, if you can believe that, even though I'm not psychotic, only depressed (made worse because of the first failed medication) and in pain. I did a version of the Thorazine shuffle around my house and to the tea shop, until the headaches started again, and I was glad God gave me an excuse to get off it. But my brain is rattled from the abuse it's taken, and I'm just plain tired, body and soul. All I wanted was to feel better. So I can work better.

I've finally started going to daily Mass, even though Christ asked me to about two years ago. There's a heckuva difference between intention and obedience, I've learned. Again. All of hell will conspire against your godly decision. Migraine kept me in bed in the dark, literally and figuratively, well past the time the faithful at St. Paul's left in peace. But I still had the option of going to my home parish, St. Peter Claver, for our Wednesday evening Mass. But there was all this drama at the house that erupted. When? When I started to get ready to go to church, of course. I was tempted to stay home to make sure matters didn't get worse, until I realized I couldn't do jack in my state anyway, including make a compelling argument. So I left, feeling utterly defeated. And then I saw a neighbor, a dear who has cancer and is fighting for her life. I stopped to talk to her. I figure if she's on borrowed time and she wanted to have a conversation to me, I could love and honor her enough to give it. I'm learning to stop and listen. We never know how long we'll have our lovies with us, or how long we'll be with them.

Once I arrived at the church I was embarrassed to have missed the whole thing. Deacon James and Christine consoled my by telling me the priest blazed through the celebration and it ended sooner than anyone expected. Then kind Deacon James asked me if I'd like to have communion. Let's just say he didn't have to ask me twice.

Before he served me the body of Christ, he read me the gospel passage for the day and for the first time that I can recall--then again, I can't recall much right now--the Word, through the gospel reading at church, came to me as if Jesus was speaking directly to me. I mean, ridiculously directly, so much so that it took me out of my head, and startled me with it's power. If I hadn't have been listening so carefully now that the Lord had my attention, I would have sworn I'd heard an audible voice that wasn't Deacon James's. It was weird. Okay, I know that sounds a little psychotic, so pretend we're all mystics here. And there Jesus was telling me with the kind of clarity that has eluded me all week, "I am the vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that bears no fruit he cuts away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes to make it bear even more."

Lord, have mercy. I've felt so unfruitful lately. While my husband and dearest friends plan and do huge wonderful things, I've embraced a ministry that is small. Lately, the Lord has spoken to me in a volume that so low I strain to hear it, and he speaks single word sermons. "Wait," he says. Or "listen." Or "stop." I always hear him say, "Pray." And "love." Love is always required, but all of these words say so much more to me than their brevity implies. I'm fortunate that he does speak to me, and I realize anew that being a spiritual companion is not a glamorous vocation. The preparation is unassuming. You study. You love. You listen. You pray. You trust for God's provision--you must!--because you're not even sure if you should charge for it. You humble yourself. You wait, and start the process all over again.

So there I was, hearing the Gospel, when this passage really starts freaking me out, because not only is Jesus's voice a razor sharp contrast to my drug-dulled mind, his word slices into my soul, and dear Jesus! It hurts. I feel something fall right off of me, leaving some insidious sin in pieces at my feet and soaked in blood. I don't have to tell you whose blood. These are the words, oh so personally, he spoke to me like the whisper of a prophet in a wayward daughter's ear saying, "change."

"You are pruned already, by means of the word that I have spoken to you. Make your home in me, as I make mine in you. As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself, but must remain part of the vine, neither can you unless you live in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, with me in him, bears fruit in plenty; for cut off from me, you can do nothing."

I've made the gross error of looking at what God was doing for others so hard that I stop seeing (and being grateful) for what he is doing for me! And that, my friends, is sin. The cloak of grace is big enough to cover us all. And when I am quiet, when I am attuned, I feel the arm of Christ, and the stability his broken for me body through his love filled sleeve supports me. I may be sick; I may be loopy and droopy, but God hasn't forgotten me. He hasn't forgotten any of us. It's all going to make sense one day, all of our suffering.

I also heard this: "Anyone who does not remain in me is like a branch that has been thrown away--he withers; these branches are collected and thrown on the fire, and they are burnt."

I saw this in a new way. What if not remaining in him looks like the busyness of a very ordinary life. You work hard, and then harder. You come home and bark at your family for no good reason. It's not intentional. You're just tired, that's all, but somewhere in all your good work, you forgot that you were connected to a life force in which you live and move and have your being. What if your withering started when you were laboring with all your might, even for God? What if the fire is spiritual aridity, which, if you've ever experienced, you know is hell. What if you are burnt because you're burnt out?

And here's what would have brought tears to my eyes if I were capable of crying in the state I was in: "If you remain in me, and my words remain in you, you may ask what you will, and you shall get it. It is to the glory of my Father that you should bear much fruit. And then you will be my disciple."

Here was truly blessed assurance, Jesus telling me that to live in him, and let his words live in me, and what I ask for, including for his blessing in doing what my heart longs for, what I was made for, spiritual direction, will happen. I can ask for what I want, and get it. God wants me to bear fruit. I must keep abiding.

That was good news for my over-medicated, weary body and soul. It was manna for the day. I'll let tomorrow take care of itself.

In love and the vine,
mair-francis

Blue Tuesday

2010-04-27T13:11:00.001-04:00

In one of my moments of not very quiet desperation, I asked a fellow St. Francis lover and friend if he ever suffered from depression. He hadn't. Ever. But his wife had. Then I asked if she ever felt conflicted about taking medication for it. Turns out she had, but she took it anyway because she knew what happened when she didn't. I get it.

I've been taking a medicine for fibromyalgia pain that is also used to treat depression. MERCY! Even if I could continue to endure the new onset of migraines and pummeling depression, call me crazy, but it just seems a little counter-productive if the pain is worse, too. Like, much worse. Sometimes finding relief from symptoms feels like I'm playing Russian roulette with my brain. It takes weeks before I realize the awful way I feel it isn't just me--how I am. It's actually the medicine that is supposed to help me feel better.

I don't have the money for alternative therapies, so I'm left with Medicaid, which I thank God for! I'm not a person who is opposed to pharmaceuticals, I happen to know a few saved my life. But I'm having a hell of a time, literally, finding a combination that's working. Currently, I'm on Wellbutrin and Savella. The addition of the Savella seems to be the trouble. I made an appointment to drag myself back to the doctor, and to the proverbial drawing board, but...

I don't know. I think I'll ask to see a pain management specialist.

My dear friends, do you have any other thoughts on what I should do? Do you know of someone I can talk to? Chime in anytime.

love,
mair

They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

2010-04-26T13:05:00.002-04:00

Burney, Claudia Mair. God Alone Is Enough: A Spirited Journey with Teresa of Avila. Paraclete. Jul. 2010. c.176p. ISBN 978-1-55725-661-4. $16.99. REL

This is Burney’s (Amanda Bell Brown mystery series) first nonfiction title. She uses her practiced skill as a writer and narrator to tell the story of this 16th-century Spanish mystic and nun, expounding some of the trickier points of Teresa’s mysticism and offering a good deal of her own story in the process. VERDICT This refreshingly unstuffy book revitalizes Teresa and will appeal not only to African American women but to Christians across race and gender lines as well.

Sunshine House Sabbath

2010-04-24T14:51:00.001-04:00

Okay, so I saw a video clip of Lauren Winner recently talking about the Sabbath. One of my publishers, Paraclete Press, published her book MUD HOUSE SABBATH, which she promoted with said video. Sabbath keeping has always eluded me. Like, when exactly does it begin? And when is it over? Does the whole "no work" thing mean you don't have to wash your dishes? I'm just sayin'. What did God do on his day of rest?

Of course, most of the details about Sabbath keeping--save exactly what God did--are all things that are easy to find out, if I were remotely interested in doing that on today, and sadly, I am not. But I did latch on to one thing Lauren said: to do something you enjoy. That I can handle.

On this cool Saturday, in the rain's aftermath, I'm resting in the best way I know how to, at least at the moment. I am doing nothing in particular. Now and then, I lift some prayers to my Beloved. I read a bit, sitting here in my bright blue, orange in pink undies, with no desire to put real clothes on, and I CANNOT believe I told you I've spent most of the day in my draws. I'm watching a movie on Lifetime, Lying to Be Pefect. It's about an insecure, fat woman who pretends to be someone else so she can write for the magazine she works for, and ends up taking her own alter ego's advice, losing weight, and becoming fabulous, only to realize she was fabulous all along. I'm ridiculously into it, which just goes to show you...

It's very painful to type. I have the misfortune of having carpal tunnel in both hands and wrists, so I can't do much work on the computer. But it's oddly very difficult to just stop all my cyber piddling, and even real writerly work, to simply rest my hands, just for a week! But sometimes doing nothing is the better part, even if you're not sitting at the feet of Jesus absorbing every word he says, but rather, watching television with him, and resting your mind. And um, your hands, except to write a short blog. Hey, give me a minute to get used to the idea.

Okay, enough typing. OUCH!

How is your Sabbath day, my dear friends?

love,
mair-francis

Rain and Tea

2010-04-23T11:19:00.001-04:00

Today my lovie Lisa Samson's tea shop, Cuppa: A Tea Cafe is having its grand opening. I got there before the doors opened, and Lisa and I shared a quiet time of prayer while the scones baked. A short time later, as I drank coffee--she sells coffee, too--our neighbor Karen stopped by to be Lisa's first customer on her first "real" day in business. I sat near the window so I can wait for my husband, all swagger and milk chocolate fineness, to come into view. It's his first day of work. Not that he hasn't been working all along, creating this logo, beautiful murals--oh, you have to see them!-- and and replicas of the brushed-stroked tea cup stretched across the window panes near the front entrance. It is raining today. The air is cool. We would have preferred a sunny opening day, but isn't rain perfect for tea and scones? And you can have your pick of sweet or savory. Or both! And one of 52 kinds of tea.

Ironically, I had coffee at the shop, but came back home to the Sunshine House and drank a cup of my favorite blend that I purchased. It's the Cuppa Favorite pick this week. It's called Starry Night.

Dear Lord, I could bathe in it! I could wear it as my favorite perfume. It's as whimsical and evocative as the painting that shares it's name. And with a bit of cream on top. OMGosh! I wish you were here with me today. We could sip our starry night, and simply soak in the graces that come our way, even when it rains. Or maybe, especially when it does.

"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.

Much love,
mair-franics

The Sunshine Abbey

2010-04-22T16:16:00.001-04:00

Hello my lovies!

I have so much to tell you. I've been thinking, and brooding about a new venture. Mind you, a lot of thinking, and brooding has been going on with bff Lisa Samson, and her fabulous Cuppa: A Tea Cafe swings open the door of hospitalitea (I couldn't resist) on tomorrow, April 23, 2010. But I am preparing to open the doors of another kind of hospitality, namely, soulcare. Yes, lovies. You heard it here first, on June 1, 2010, The Sunshine Abbey will be offering one on one soulcare, workshops, and retreats, for creative, sacred living. Our first offering, besides the spiritual direction, will be Pray, Paper, Scissors, which teaches participants to connect with God through collage as the "art of prayer." The first workshop will be in Lexington, KY, but later, an online workshop will be available, and hopefully a book soon after. There will also be products, including ebooks, soulcare kits, and beautifully illustrated cards. I can't wait to show you. Unfortunately, you're going to have to be a bit patient with me, especially on my graphics, as my talented amazing hubby has been busy painting murals for Cuppa. So, imagine the picture above, only a better logo, with Ken's unique spin on a Peter Max, Beatlesish Yellow Submarine slash Abbey Road feel. I'm so excited, and I can't wait to share more, and to serve YOU!

Much love,
mair-francis,
Abbess of The Sunshine Abbey (okay, can you tell I'm gonna LOVE saying that?)

What Does New Life Look Like?

2010-04-19T09:32:00.001-04:00

What does new life look like? Maybe it resembles a baby chick coming out of it's shell. All I know is I feel soft and curious, more alive than ever. Sure, I'm a little sore from slowly pecking through the hard shell of years of defenses that once protected me. And I'm not yet sturdy. I'm simply new, possessing all the stuff to become the solid, sassy woman full of hope and possibilities God knit me in my mother's womb to be. I'm looking at the world around me with my just-born eyes, and wow! All things are possible! I'm new enough here to believe it. The Creator, who spoke worlds into being, has said so. All things are possible; that's what new life--my new life--looks like to me.

How about you?

In love and hope,
mair-francis

Christ is Risen!

2010-04-04T02:15:00.001-04:00

Truly He is risen!

"You don't have to wait for the End. I am, right now, Resurrection and Life. The one who believes in me, even though he or she dies, will live. And everyone who lives believing in me does not ultimately die at all. Do you believe this?" John 11:25, The Message

Shout out "Christ is risen," if you believe it.

CHRIST IS RISEN!

Something Beautiful is Emerging, Indeed

2010-03-20T20:44:00.001-04:00

So, a few weeks ago I noticed shoots of green poking out of the ground in the yard of the little house ~~full of noxious sewage fumes~~. A week ago I trudged out of the front door to find a single yellow crocus had flowered. Today, there are three of them; the other two are purple, and now the bright, happy heads of a plethora of daffodils are ready to bloom. And so am I.

This has not by any means been my most devotional Lenten season ever, but I have to say, since I've been observing Lent, this is the one in which I've been the most transformed. I can't take any credit for it. When the heart thing happened, I promptly sabotaged the seven hard-earned pounds of weight loss I'd achieved. But Mair is in bloom lovies, and I just don't care what the scale says right now. I'm losing the kind of weights that have kept me broke and bound for far too long, the kind on the inside.

Today, on this first day of Spring, I've been packing and carting boxes. We are moving into The Sunshine House, thanks to our dear friends Lisa and Will, and I'm certain a bright and promising future awaits us. It looks like Ken has found job in a tattoo shop right across the street from the Sunshine House. Right after Holy Week and Easter Lisa is opening Cuppa. This is a wondrous thing, y'all. And me, I'm slowly getting healthy, and am back to my abandoned lifestyle changes (most of them). And lovies, I'm starting a business, but I'll tell you more about that later after the move. First things first. I will say, however, I haven't even had the courage to try a business venture, other than writing, for a long time. But it's Spring! My life is exploding with color and fragrance, mirroring what's happening outside after this long, snowy winter.

I'd better get some rest now. We have a long day tomorrow and for the next few days, but I will pop in now and again, even if I don't comment right away. Tell me friends, what is in bloom in your life? I'd love to hear. Talk among yourselves.

Much love, and I'll chat with you from The Sunshine House.

mair-francis

"Look at the mess."

2010-03-12T02:41:00.003-05:00

Once I heard one of my most beloved priests, Fr. Benedict Groeschel, say that when he was a little boy, he used to have to think of something sad when he went to confession to dredge up some semblance of contrition. He often thought of the most heartbreaking scenes in the old movie, Lassie. I can picture the little priest-to-be working up his tears. It's an endearing story. Then he said, "Now I go to confession and I don't have to try to make myself cry. All I have to do is think about my life and say, "Look at the mess." For the record, he is a very devout man.

Look at the mess, indeed. I've had a conversation with a few of my lovies around here and we agreed that Lent brings out the best and worst in us. Here we find our most ardent zeal, and most stubborn apathy. We see the green shoots of virtue begin to sprout, and we weary ourselves just looking at the remaining fallow ground that refuses to yield to Spirit's pounding. Lord, have mercy.

Someone, God knows I can't remember who, said that conversion is a violent process. It certainly was for the Apostle Paul. Right now it is for me, too, and I find myself in a soul upheaval that is breaking up a lot of hard ground. God longs for my inner Springtime, but I am aching from the battering of my hard heart. But no growth takes place without God pulling up noxious weeds, and softening our soil. All I can do is hang on to the master gardeners busy hands as he toils with the hope that something beautiful will emerge from all of this. SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL WILL EMERGE!

But for now, the dirt and weeds are flinging everywhere, and I'm appalled at the work that still has to be done. "Look at the mess," I'm saying, but he keeps working. That's what's so amazing. God doesn't shy away from the work it takes to form us. The Omnipresent, Omniscient, timeless God of grace is not only laboring to make the garden of our souls beautiful, he's enjoying the fragrant, colorful wonder that we will be, that's already so apparent to him, but hidden from our dark and mortal eyes.

And hey, he takes a break on the Sabbath. Thank God! Like seriously. All that digging he's doing really freakin' hurts.

How is this season of emerging Spring for you, dear ones?

mair-francis

Be That Well

2010-03-10T12:31:00.000-05:00

What a week it's been! The Sunday before last I passed out at dinner and there I was in the emergency room and then a bed at UK hospital. After that my computer died--yes, the one I sent to be serviced two weeks ago. But I'm out of the hospital and rested. I'm not one hundred percent but I'm here. My computer is back, and it seems to be working just fine.

This week I've spent a lot of time grieving my life, and the choices I've made. I realized, with God's help the support of friends, that I've spent much of my adult life living as if I'm still the high school drop out and battered woman I used to be.

Okay, let me say this: I really was a high school drop out, but why have I made that BIGGER than being a freakin' college graduate? I haven't written the best novels EVER, but I have received recognition, and even gained some fans. One of my books was nominated for some pretty darned good awards. So why have I sat on proposal ideas, afraid that I'm not a good writer and wondering if my writing life is OVER?

I'm back with the same old issues: a landlord demanding payment I don't have and a pending eviction; checks that are delayed for no fault of my own; fear driving all my decisions. I'm wearing a heart monitor right now. Lord, have mercy. Last night I asked myself what is breaking my heart. The answer? I am.

So after a tearful, "God why haven't you provided?" moment, my dear lovie Lisa showed me the ways in which he had, indeed, provided. We're low on funds not just because I didn't get my check on time, but also because we've been a financial prodigals, spending the little we have too lavishly, and believing ourselves, especially me, to be unworthy to be called a daughter. But my good Father has received me with great love, just as he the prodigal son's father did. He ran to meet me.

Today, my life starts over. I don't care if there's an again after that.

I called the counseling center today. I'm going to get help with every little thing standing in the way of being of my being the most authentic, best me I can be, and that includes financially. I'm going to set a time for daily (with a sabbath) work. Daily! I'm listing all the ways that I can make money with the many gifts God has given me. Today's message from God to me has been, "I've given you all that you need. Go!"

Lisa reminded me that Francis DeSales said, "Be who you are, and be that well." She added, "You're fantastic. Use the gifts God gave you." I have barely been myself, much less be me well. It's time to forge the identity that I've missed caught up in both legitimate and unnecessary suffering.

Being in Overeaters Anonymous, I've prayed the serenity prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." This I'm good at. "The courage to change the things I can?" Not so much. Sure life is scary, but I still have to live it. "The wisdom to know the difference isn't my strong suit either, but the Bible says if we ask for wisdom, God will give it. I'm counting on that.

Anybody with me?

mair-francis

St. Francis DeSales image by John Murphy
http://www.cafepress.com/idyllspress/

So sorry...

2010-03-03T16:55:00.000-05:00

I have my iMac back, but it came on the day I was released from the hospital. I have no idea why I'm feeling so badly. It may be related to my heart, and I'm wearing a monitor for the next 30 days, but I can't tell you how listless and terrible I'm feeling. I'm asking for your prayers and patience. I'll be back as soon as I'm better. Hold on to Jesus.

Much love,
Mair

iMac Trouble

2010-02-25T21:37:00.002-05:00

Hey lovies,

My iMac needs repairing, and I have to send it out the the Apple hospital. I'll be back in a week or two. Until then...

Pax et Bonum!
mair-francis

Sheets and Blankets

2010-02-23T11:38:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, when I know my children are stretched taut with their own very real troubles, I give them a pass on school. We call it a personal day. I don't care if they're in elementary school, when they need it, I grant it. Even little people need a personal day to rest a bit, collect themselves, and shore up to face the next day.

I'm taking a personal day today.

Yes, there's work to be done, marketing stuff, bio stuff and, God help me, an author photo--and you know how I feel about those! There's a proposal to finish, and housework that needs attending to, and I was prepared to do it all today, until I picked up the book I told you about not long ago, SistahFaith: Real Stories of Pain, Truth, and Triumph, and decided to stop hiding from my own life, and read it.

I have four stories in this powerful anthology (most of them appeared on this blog when a book deal was still a sparkle in my eye). Some of the contributors are my friends, one is my beloved sibling and big sister extraordinaire, Carly. As I read I nodded, cried, smiled, affirmed, and related, and Lord, have mercy, I remembered. By the time I'd read three of the four of mine, I had come undone. With my voice still broken from sobbing I called my brother, and though I'd said it before, I thanked him for saving my life, getting me out of Washington D.C. before Raphael (not his real name) killed me. We didn't talk long, but I needed to say it again.

Who are the people who spread their cloak around you and covered you when you were most vulnerable? Who were the souls on your personal underground railroad who made haste to steal you away to freedom in the night? Maybe some are long gone from your life, or even from this world. Pour their names out of your mouth like a libation. Give thanks for them, and after you've done that, take a moment to remember those who are still bound, even if that person is you. And pray once again.

On this chilly Monday during Lent, I am sitting in my version of sackcloth and ashes: I'm in the bed, in sheets and blankets. I am remembering the girl who loved a boy, the naked pregnant lady in the yard, and the skinny little wisp of me who sliced a razor blade into the tender flesh of her wrists because for a moment, I didn't think I could bear another aching moment. And you know what is so surprising? What may even qualify as a miracle? I'm not hungry. I'm not running into the kitchen to keep that woman down. She's here in bed with me, staring at me with her mournful eyes, and I'm going to lie with her, hold her close, kiss her on the top of her head and whisper into her hair, "There, there. I've got you."

Most of Lent is about a cross that looms so much heavier than our own, and the innocent man who was God who hung on it. And rightfully so.

Some of Lent is about the crosses that we shoulder right now: our obsessions; our mental illnesses; our eating disorders; our secret shame and sorrow. But make no mistake about it, some of the crosses Lent gives us pause to revisit are the ones we've staked in the ground of our pasts. These crosses say, "Something perished here, something precious and important, and we remember."

When memories so painful they spear you like giant icicles freezing your soft soul innards, it's okay to take a personal day, pull the sheets and blankets of mourning over you, rest a bit, collect yourself, and shore yourself up for tomorrow.

It's okay, every now and then.

mair

A Prayer, and an Invitation

2010-02-22T16:56:00.001-05:00

So, I go to confession on Ash Wednesday, right? And I spill it all, especially about the eating disorder thing. And the soul work Fr. Normal gives me to do is to pray for you! Well, you don't have to ask me twice to pray for my lovies, so here my dear ones, is a prayer for all of you who are dealing with addictions of any kind.

Beloved,

We we really hunger for what is often not food. Our longing is for comfort, for a respite for our aches, and we are all in want of love. But food is not love. Alcohol is not comfort. Overwork does not take our aches away. We still feel afraid. Some of us cannot sleep. Beloved, often what we are trying to blunt is the very thing that makes us human. Our addictions, which may very well have once served as the defenses that protected us from great harm, are now the harm. Free us, O kind One.

The Velveteen Rabbit was wise enough to tell us that love makes us real, no matter how shabby and worn we appear. Beloved, give us permission, deep down in our souls, to be less than perfect. Most of us are addicted to something. Help us to be honest. Honesty is real, but in all our honesty and our reality, help us to see ourselves and one another with the soft eyes of grace.

Have mercy on us, good and patient God. Please teach us to be merciful to ourselves and one another. Give us the serenity to accept what we absolutely cannot change. Our bodies, as they are this very moment, are something we cannot change--not in this instant. Oh, we may feed them less, or exercise them more. We can color parts of them, and groom others, but what we have in this wee bit of time is what we have. Some of us are sick. Some of us are heavy. Some of us have curly hair we wish we was straight, and straight hair we wish was curly. And while we can take measures to change this--our hair will still sprout out of our heads straight, or curly. And some of us will not have hair grow at all! Dear God, I bring you our diseases, and lay them at your feet. Some of us will not be cured in this life, but that doesn't mean we can't be well. Help us to accept what we cannot change. But what we can, give us the courage the change. And as you know, Beloved, we don't always know the difference. Will you give us the wisdom to discern between the two? And Lord, will you heal us? I will leave it up to you how you will do that, because you are God, and I am just your servant.

Give us your grace, in the precious name of your Son, Jesus. Amen.

Now, lovies, I want to offer you an invitation--take me by the hand, and let's keep going to our Beloved God together. I don't just mean in prayer. All recovery is a journey into the arms of God. No matter what your longing, and especially if you try to fill those deep soul hungers with food, walk with me. I don't care what your drug of choice is, I'll be praying, and listening, and trying to help.

Okay?

mair-francis

Whoops!

2010-02-20T22:10:00.000-05:00

I've had a very busy day, and little time on the computer. Now, after 10 p.m., I have quite the migraine. Do join me on Monday for the prayers I promised. I'll be praying especially for those with addictions, and I want to be fully present praying for you, lovies. Meanwhile, have a beautiful Sunday, and we'll pick up right where we left off today on Monday.

And just to hold you, my Facebook and Twitter quotable Lent quote for today:

"Since all of us are weighed down by sin and its consequences, fasting is proposed to us as an instrument to restore friendship with God." -- Pope Benedict

Blessings!
mair

Happy Are Those...

2010-02-19T12:38:00.001-05:00

This morning I woke up feeling happy for no good reason. Of course, as you can see by my previous post, I'm thinking about crosses: the one Christ bore on our behalf and the ones he gives to us. We suffer. We die to self, and our flesh, but amid all this sacrifice, I never want to lose sight of what a privilege it is to serve the Lord. In Small Surrenders, my Lenten devotional this year, yesterday I read about embracing our trials and sufferings. This is difficult for me, as my response to being told I may have a vocation to suffer reveals. But there are days of amazing grace that come to me for no good reason but the fact that God loves me. On those days, in my weakness and utter dependence on God, he shares with me his strength and ability to do his will, and I in turn give him the weight of my crosses. This is a conscious choice lovies, and in doing so I choose what Emilie Griffin calls "a certain lightness of heart." She writes:

"When we choose the way of Jesus we are opting for happiness. Just one simple line in the Psalms seems to say it all: Happy are those... whose hope in in the Lord their God. If we don't follow the way of the wicked, if we avoid the attitudes of sinners, if we don't hang out with the insolent, then we will have a kind of inward happiness that keeps us going. The Psalms make a further comparison: the good person is like a tree planted near running water, yielding fruit, whose leaves never fade or fall."

The fact is, crosses give way to resurrection and new life. Wouldn't it be marvelous, lovies, if we embraced spiritual disciplines in this penitential season, and tasted the sweet and luscious fruit they bear in our lives. God's fruit is good! Taste and see it! The spiritual disciplines are designed to make us those happy people who trust in the Lord our God.

When I was a girl, we used to sing praise songs in the Pentecostal church I went to. One of the songs the old folks sang was, "This joy that I have, the world can give it to me. The world can't give it, and the world can't take it away." So as you drag that cross you bear around, no matter what it may be, don't forget that Jesus said, "These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world."

I can see the empty tomb at the end of this Lenten journey. It's far away, and still a little fuzzy, but I know it's there, and just for today, the thought of it strengthens me.

Stay tuned, lovies. Tomorrow I'm going to write some prayers for us, and offer you an invitation.

Peace!
mair-francis

One More Time...

2010-02-18T13:53:00.000-05:00

Do you ever have those shining moments of clarity that reveal you've got it all wrong? Last night I went to confession. Let me tell you, I LOVE my parish priest, Fr. Norman. Going to confession with him is an absolute pleasure, and that's a gift, a priest that makes you feel so safe that you're relieved to go and unburden yourself of the yolk of sin. So I laid out my big ticket items--my venial sins get wiped out during the Mass, and I was given abundant grace. I mean, I had grace in the first place. It was grace that drove me to go to confession, but it's a wonderful thing to be able to be honest about the worst things about yourself, and be cloaked with love afterward.

One of the things he spoke with me about is Paul's thorn in the side, and he helped me imagine Paul and the conversations he must have had with God: "Oh, Lord, I've got this thorn in my side. Take it away." To, "Oh, Lord. Thank you for this thorn in my side that draws me closer to you." I think I have a few thorns in my side, and they do draw me closer to my beloved, but I'm known to ask him to remove them on the regular. And then I thank him. And then I ask him to take it away. And so on. Lord, have mercy.

Today's Gospel reading is from Luke 9:22-25:

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘The Son of Man is destined to suffer grievously, to be rejected by the elders and chief priests and scribes and to be put to death, and to be raised up on the third day.’

Then to all he said, ‘If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross every day and follow me. For anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake, that man will save it. What gain, then, is it for a man to have won the whole world and to have lost or ruined his very self?’

Recently I read a stunning book by a writer I admire very much, Tim Farrington. He loves St. John of the Cross as I do. He's also no stranger to the Dark Night of the Soul--I don't just mean the poem and commentary St. John of the Cross wrote. I mean the experience. At some point, Farrington, who had the ambition most writers have full of dreams of being on Oprah and making the New York Times bestseller list, had to do some business with God. He wondered if God had called him to be small, rather than large. He even entertained the thought that God called him to be a failure. Lordy, mercy! I've had this conversation with the Lord. Remember I told you my friend said I may have a vocation to suffer, and how I sorta wanted to kill him for even suggesting it? But a cross is firmly planted on my shoulder that insists on me being given to the broken, which requires me to be broken myself.

Have I ever told you that I've felt jealous of the success of some of my fellow writers? That I felt angry that some people who don't particularly write beautifully experience wild success, while my sales numbers falter and my books become increasingly obscure. And you know what happens when you look at other people with jealously or envy? You stop looking at the Beloved, who has not forgotten you. This is hard to do lovies. A part of me is wicked ambitious.

But look at Jesus. His words to his disciples was that he was destined to suffer grievously. Rejected. But me, I've been unwilling to suffer or be rejected. And then I say yes to suffering and the little way. And then I say, "Take it away. I want to make it big!" In those moments I've got it all wrong. He's truly calling me to small. Intimate. Full of grace, and quiet, hidden beauty. And one more time, "No, I want the glory. I want to be a star."

I'm not saying that we shouldn't trust God for goodness and abundant blessings, but what I'm suggesting, to myself lovies, I don't want to preach to you, is that praying for the humility to accept the cross I've been given is a good thing, because like it or not, it's right there on my shoulder, and I've been dragging it around anyway, because it happens to be my destiny.

Ouch!

But all of us who follow Christ have crosses. Why is it so easy to forget this basic fact?

The one thing I love about Lent most is the Way of the Cross. I can go through those stations like a pro! crying, and loving Jesus for carrying his cross, but when I walk away, I go back to my life still wanting my own cross to go away.

What if I'm never famous, or popular, or win the award I'm nominated for? What if I get more bad reviews than good, and some people call me a heretic, or just plain ignorant and uninspired? What if the only people I reach for Jesus are the few who come to this blog? What if every writer I know succeeds, and all my books go out of print and the only thing I do is grow old living in a house of hospitality dressed in second hand clothes?

Well, fame is over-rated. I LOVE this blog, and the people who come here, and despite myself, I think I did exactly what I promised Jesus I would do if he let me write: tell broken people he loves them. If anyone came to this blog and got a greater sense of the love of God in the midst of their struggles, I've done something beautiful for the Lord, which was all I wanted anyway. The house of hospitality is my dream. My clothes aren't great as it is. I love sharing Jesus with people face to face. To pass out coffee and soup, and love--now that's a great life!

I'll bet my hero Dorothy Day had a lot of bored days when her cross was the very thing she loved: offering hospitality. When she was getting cussed out, or worried about where the rent would come from, or disappointed with herself because once again she was angry or short with someone, I'll bet she felt the full weight of her cross. And maybe some of those times she had no Simon the Cyrene to help her shoulder it.

We hate our crosses. We love them. We thank God for them. We beg him to take them away. It's all part of being human, and we can rest assured that Jesus walked the way before we did, and suffered more. That's enough to keep me going for today. And the rest? Well, I'll take it a day at at time, and I'll drag my cross wherever I have to. One more time.

mair-francis

The Fresh Start Season: Lent 2010

2010-02-17T04:35:00.003-05:00

Hello beloveds,

It's my favorite time of year. I know I'm a freak, but I actually like Lent and Easter more than I like Christmas. I think it's the time my heart is softest, and I'm most pliable in God's hand. This season it couldn't have come soon enough.

I know I practically disappeared, but you would not believe the head trips I've been on. First of all, at the end of January I started some new medications, and wowza, one of them was NOT good for me. It made me feel drunk, and then I got a little twitchy. After that the bottom fell out of my brain, and I found myself free-falling into a wicked depression. All of this happened as I sequestered myself inside the house to finish a novel. Every comforting habit of destruction I thought I'd let go of returned, and I felt like a total failure, but total failure isn't the worst place to be, children of God. Lying to yourself about being a total failure is, or it's darned close.

I have to be honest. No, seriously, I HAVE TO BE HONEST, because I'd become quite the pious liar when it came to my worst behavior. My first mistake was that I'd begun to think that I could do kick my compulsive eating addiction on my own! "Look at me," I thought. "I'm doing my thing!" I'd forgotten what had driven me to my knees in the first place: the fact that I could not beat it on my own. For years I've stuffed myself instead of grieved my losses, numbing my pain with food. It actually changed my brain pathways. It's pretty clear to me now that it's a whole lot easier for me to engage in my addiction than to eat like a normal person. And I, this woman who has for so many years called myself a ragamuffin--poor in spirit--began to believe I had this all by myself (read as, I didn't need God's help), just because I'd taken to walking and cutting sugar. Around the third week of my journey, my brain promptly reminded me that it was not interested in change, and cut it out already! And I folded like my mama's clothesline-dried laundry.

I had to take it back to the first step of twelve, lovies: I admitted that I was powerless, once again. The second step came right after: I came to believe a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity. Lord, have mercy, I had truly become insane again, but having gotten that far in the steps, it was easy to go to the next one, and make a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God.

This is the one that isn't easy to do, so I'm going to hang out there for a bit. Sounds like Lent to me! It's become clear to me that in some notable ways I just don't want God in control. There are sins I have that--make no mistake about it--I love, and apparently I've become adept--downright masterful! at acting like they aren't there. If I can pretend they don't exist, I don't have to think that God wants me to surrender them, and that my refusal to do so is hardhearted and stiff-necked. These are the things I'm thinking of as I began this holy time. Trust me, sistah girl will be going to confession today.

Last year my friend Steve Laube sent me a book by a writer I love, Emilie Griffin. It's called, Small Surrenders: A Lenten Journey. The cover says, "Lent is our chance for a fresh start, a new page. We consciously let down our defenses against the grace of God."

That's what my compulsive eating is, a defense, and now it keeps me from the grace God wants to give me, and it blocks my freedom. Once upon a time it protected me from the dangerous predator I lived with whose own pathology made a misery of my life. I ate ravenously, hoarded food, lied about food, and even threw up the massive portions I stuffed down because it wasn't safe for me to eat normally. This is what God is saying to me: "You can give this to me now."Giving such a deeply ingrained defense to him isn't a one time event. It will be a constant turning of my will over to him. I am hoping I can get out of my own way, and allow myself the blessing of a helpless, infantile dependence on the One who really is safe for me. Because I am powerless, like, totally, I'm not even going to try to attempt anything heroic for Lent. I like what Griffin says, which inspires the title of this magnificent devotional, "Lent is a time when we deepen our faith in a journey not of grand gestures, but of small surrenders." Amen to that.

So, I am not really giving up anything other than sugar. It is sacrificial now, as opposed to several weeks ago when I started this journey, because sugar is my crack, lovies, and in my body it's just as destructive as any street drug. Because it's hardest for me to give up and be consistent about, I'm offering it to God as often as I need to, in a series of small surrenders. I'm also giving up the enormous portions sizes I've come to depend on, instead having three portioned controlled meals a day, and two snacks--and I do mean snacks: small ones, rather than small meals between meals--that too is a mind game! This way will help regulate my wonky blood sugar. The only day I will not eat this way is today, Ash Wednesday, and on every Friday, when I will fast and abstain from meat. This (except for the fasting) is called clean eating. I should have chosen an eating plan when I first started this journey, but I didn't realize how dishonest I was about my love for food and my lack of real desire to release it. Lord, have mercy.

As I continued on this journey of changing my life, I realized that it is far more a journey into the arms of God than anything else. Everything I read about in overeaters anonymous led me back to him, and every step of the twelve was a beckoning--an urging to return to God--revealing my true hungers, even those I didn't want to see. So more than anything else, this Lent is about what I'm giving to God, not what I'm giving up. So yes, I'm giving myself to God, in the small most meaningful ways. A few years ago, during one of my first Lenten seasons, I heard a wise man say, "God is more important than food." Ain't that the truth? I want that to be a reality in my life, and stop my manipulations. It's time to get real.

What about you, lovies? What are your Lenten surrenders about this year?

mair-francis

Sistahfaith! Get it!!!

2010-02-08T18:40:00.005-05:00

If you buy one book this year (besides my St. Teresa of Avila book), let it be Sistahfaith: True Stories of Hope and Healing by my lovely dear, dear friend, Marilynn Griffith. I contributed three stories to this riveting book, and I really want to spread the word about how amazing this anthology is. You will be hard pressed to find the honesty and grace that are in these pages. Mary and I are going to chat about how Sistahfaith came about soon. For now, enjoy this entry I wrote for her blog tour.

Running

by Claudia Mair Burney

I woke up this morning after dreaming about my mama. Not the one who birthed me, but the one who raised me from the time I was fifteen-months-old. She’s the one I conjure every Thanksgiving when the celery and onions simmer on the stove. Her memory brings with it my little girl self, chopping onions at the kitchen table, and wiping tears away.

I was the one mama chose for that important task, and every year I see this scene in my mind while the vegetables cook. I still chop the celery and onions, even though I have capable children I can assign the work to. But I like doing it; in a way, it’s still for her.

Sometimes out of nowhere, I’ll hear a snatch of Mama singing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” She didn’t know the lyrics, and I smile to remember how she flubbed it every time. She and Michael both are gone now. Lord, have mercy.

And there she was in my dreams today, along with a never-quite-healed sense of loss. I only saw her flicker on the strange and vivid screen of my sub-conscious mind, but it was enough to stir an ache for her upon waking I couldn’t get away from. And here I thought I’d put that particular hurt away.

She died at a time right after many things had perished in my life. I stored her death in it’s own pretty jar, and placed it on the dusty shelf that held the rest of my persistent sorrows: babies born too soon, loveless shame-filled liaisons, harrowing abuse. My grief shelf was full. I thought my sorrows sat there quietly, disturbing no one, certainly not me! Until a dream shook mama’s jar from its high, hidden place, and it tumbled down and shattered on the floor.

I’m learning not to be so quick to pick up the pieces. Hasty clean-ups always leave me with bloody hands. So I lie in bed this morning, feeling the weight of my sadness, the surprising rage, and the awful helplessness. I’m learning that feeling is so much better than hiding grief out of sight, and hoping if I don’t see it it’ll just go away.
In many ways, I’m in the greatest journey toward healing I have ever experienced. It’s a pilgrimage that leads me straight into the arms of God. But all along the way I have to feel. I don’t get to stuff the emotions back down with food anymore. That kind of behavior will forfeit the crown I’m after. I can’t sleep my feelings away, sex them away, or drink or drug them away, or even write them away. If I’m to see God, I must be fully alive, and living women feel.

But I am not left alone with these overwhelming emotions. God is not only at the end of my journey; he’s in every step I take. He will not leave me to blunder along directionless. By his grace I have allies bearing maps, band-aids, and cups of living water. They hug me, and offer robust cheers to keep me moving when I think I’m too weary to run on. With this cloud of witnesses surrounding me, I believe I’ll see this journey to the end. For that I’m thankful, and as I go I’m humming that praise song the old Pentecostal folks sing: “I’m runnin’ for my life. I’m running for my life.”

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” Hebrew 12:1

ABOUT CLAUDIA MAIR BURNEY: Claudia Mair Burney is a novelist and new non-fiction book author living in Lexington, KY with her tattoo artist husband, four of their seven children, and a dwarf rabbit. She is kicking pre-diabetes butt in the run for her life, while encouraging others to live their best, most fully alive life, on earth as they will in heaven.

ABOUT SISTAHFAITH, INC.
SistahFaith™ is a revolution of restoration, bringing hope and healing to the brokenhearted and those who love them. Our goal is to communicate Christ personally, practically and powerfully, bringing women full circle in faith, arts and life. Each of our books, conferences, events and multimedia projects address the problems facing today’s women in a raw and relevant way.

Join the network of sistahs at http://sistahfaith.ning.com/.

ABOUT THE BOOK
Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then is there no healing for the wound of my people? (Jeremiah 8:22, NIV)

Twenty-five women, including Bunny Debarge, Sharon Ewell Foster, Stanice Anderson, Claudia Mair Burney and Marilynn Griffith, tell their stories of coming full circle from tragedy to triumph. Each contributor keeps it holy, keeping it real in these raw, relevant tales of redemption and restoration. Think of it as Prozac for the Christian Woman’s Soul!

A twelve week study is included for churches and book clubs. Instructions provided on gathering your own SistahFaith circle.

Check the tour schedule at http://bit.ly/SistahFaith

SISTAHFAITH CONTRIBUTING WRITERS
• MARILYNN GRIFFITH (Editor)
• STANICE ANDERSON
• TANYA R. BATES
• CLAUDIA MAIR BURNEY
• WANDA J. BURNSIDE
• ROBIN CALDWELL
• SHELETTE CARLISLE
• LADY CATHERINE
• ETTERLENE “BUNNY” DEBARGE”
• DEE EAST
• SHARON EWELL FOSTER
• DORIEN HAGE
• GAIL M. HAYES
• DR. NAIMA JOHNSTON
• DELORES M. JONES, MSW, LMSW
• STEPHANIE L. JONES
• CARMITA MCCALL
• LAVONN NEIL
• CARLEAN SMITH
• DAVIDAE “DEE” STEWART
• SONYA VISOR
• LITTLE SALLY WALKER
• ROSALYN “ROS” WEBB
• ROBIN R. WISE
• KISHA WOODS

Just a Taste of Teresa, Ken, and Mair

2010-01-29T17:16:00.001-05:00

Hello lovies,

Today I was thinking about Sankofa. It's a symbol that's very important to me, and if you've read Zora and Nicky, you'll know it was featured as a key to Nicky's healing, as well as to Zora's finding her identity.

Writer, heal thyself! I'm realizing in a very personal way how so much of our healing requires us to explore within, including examining our pasts, and the deepest secrets hidden in our souls. I wrote about this a bit in God Alone is Enough.

Here's a little sample of yummy goodness from the book, complete with an illustration done by my husband, fabulous (except for when it comes to bringing Hostess products in the house) Ken Burney. The quotes that begins this excerpt is from Teresa of Avila:

“We can say beginners in prayer are those who draw water from the well. As I said, this is a lot of work on their part. They must wear themselves out trying to recollect their senses. Since they’re so used to being distracted, it takes a lot of effort. They need to get used to not caring about what they see and hear while they’re spending time in prayer. Instead, in solitude they should reflect on their past. Everyone needs to do this, often. But the extent to which each person must do it varies. In the beginning, this kind of reflection is painful.”

Were you expecting her to say that? I wasn’t. Not everyone enjoys looking back, especially at aspects of life that are painful. “What good will dredging up all that stuff do?” you may ask.

Teresa felt so strongly about self-knowledge that she insisted we never abandon it. “On this journey there are no giant souls without a need to return often to the stage of a suckling infant.” Self-knowledge nourishes the soul. If you’re still not convinced, she states it even more explicitly: “Along this path, self-knowledge and the thought of one’s sins is the bread all palates must be fed with, no matter how delicate they are. They cannot be sustained without this bread.

I have no problem partaking of the bread of life, but the bread of knowledge of , including my sinfulness, does not sound like a tasty morsel I’d want to consume on a regular basis. Obviously Teresa is not expecting us to choke on examinations of our lives, but she does find it important enough to emphasize.

The wisdom of this teaching can be found in other places as well. One of the languages of the Akan culture of Ghana is made entirely of symbols, called Adinkra symbols. My favorite, Sankofa, is pictured below.

The Sankofa symbol is most traditionally illustrated as a bird standing with feet forward and neck twisted around behind. In the bird’s beak is an egg, representing the essence of its culture. In the Akan alphabet, Sankofa stands as a symbol harking us to “go back and fetch it.” The broader understanding of this symbol is that it is our duty in life to stop in our tracks, turn, and look back at our lives and history; claim the essence of who we are based on that history; and then turn and walk with grace, strength, and power into the present and the future.

Right now I'm stopping in my tracks and trying to just be quiet. I can't even begin to look within and at my past (that box of grief!) until I get quiet before the Lord. I just want to pray. I can't do this journey without being saturated in prayer.

This weekend I am finally finishing the Exorsistah 3, and boy am I relieved. But before, during, and after the hard work of writing a novel, I will be taking brief repasts to be quiet.

Just quiet.

mair -francis, who is looking back at the past (the portrait below, circa 1996), and seeing she was not bad lookin' at all!

An Epiphany

2010-01-26T22:06:00.002-05:00

So, I go to the doctor today. I weigh seven lbs more than my loving, kind, generous, and remarkably dishonest scale says. My scale says 194. The doctor's office scale says 202. And I know I've lost weight! Don't make me think about what I must have weighed last week.

But honestly, I ain't mad at 202. 202 is just a number. It isn't who I am. It's what I weigh today on this journey. It just is, and I can judge it or love it. I choose to love it, because I know what it took to get there. I honor that experience. I'm tired of fighting it. Besides, I don't plan on staying at 202 long.

It's funny, when I was looking for images for 202 I came across this Zazzle t-shirt:

Hearting my 202 is so much better than crying about it. The first time I saw that number was on a doctor's scale in Michigan. I cried when I came home. I felt way bummed out this time, but I didn't cry. I call that progress, and that time, back in Michigan, it was 202.5!

While I was at the doctor's office waiting for him to get my prescriptions, the woman who may be my sponsor called. I told her that I didn't think I was as ready to get busy as I would liked to have thought I was. I still wanted to keep the box of grief hidden. I did not know at the time we had this conversation that I didn't want to give Jesus the box, not just because I was afraid of the pain it would unleash, but I was angry at my Beloved for allowing me to go through all that mess. It was he who told me, as I sat in the meeting tonight listening to stories that I was angry at him. Often he speaks to me in questions, but today he simply stated, "You're mad at me." And he was right.

I didn't know I was mad at him before that. It was an epiphany.

I mean it was an epiphany in more than one way. Like the wise men who sought him, it was epiphany of a Christ that I'd not seen before. It was a moment of sudden insight, and it was a revelation of a divine or a supernatural being, because as sure as the incarnation, Christ came to me tonight, sitting at that meeting. He came as a small still voice in my soul. He bore witness to the truth. He shared the good news really: you were mad at me. It is good news, because seeing that changes everything.

After being stunned by his voice, in my mind I allowed myself to thrash, and accused, and beat on his chest. "Where were you?" my sad little woman/child shouted. I knew he was there all along, but I was still angry, and I still had to ask, no demand, "WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS STARVING!?! WHERE WHERE YOU WHEN HE WAS HURTING ME!?!" He didn't have to tell me he was there, weeping as I wasted away. I knew. He just wanted me to ask him. They'll be no giving him a box of grief I don't trust him with, and if I trust him, I'm safe to say, "Why did you forsake me?" even if I know he didn't do that at all. But that little woman/child believed it. And her feelings had to come to light. After all. She is me.

Jesus let me rage, and all of this took place quietly on the inside of me as I listened. This inner storm went on until my inner 89 lb woman/child was good and tired, and my anger spent.

"Are you done?" he said.

"I'm not sure."

And lovies, that is the truth.

Jesus nodded, and waited, the box sitting between us. But I didn't lash out anymore, I just stood there wishing he would take me in his arms. Of course he did. He held me, and soothed me, and he's still holding me now. And I can make it through the night.

Grace to you,

mair-francis, who really needs to do something about her hair!

The Day After...

2010-01-25T22:17:00.001-05:00

Gail called it right. I have been here, reading your comments, letting your love cover me like a quilt. I don't have much to say. I think I'll just take in all that love in for awhile. Then again, I don't know. Life is full of surprises and grace, and who knows where I may find myself soaring off too, thinking I have wings, and finding it's just all of your hands holding me up.

I'm tired. I took this picture lying down. NO MAKE UP!!! I walked today, in the snow this time! Ate like I had some sense. Worked to finish a tight copyediting deadline, and then started blazing through X3. I'm going to sleep now, and hey, it's only a little after 10 o'clock, so look at me! Whoo hoo! I'm still doing it. It'll be all right. The box will keep another day. Jesus is still here. So are you. So am I. There's much to be said about that.

mair-francis

ragamuffin diva

Kissing Brennan Manning

Risen! Art by Lisa Samson, Meditation by St. John Chrysostom paraphased by Claudia Mair Burney

Where to Find Me

Rome Weighs In: A Station of the Cross, Art by Lisa Samson

Peter Denies Jesus: A Station of the Cross, Art by Lisa Samson

Betrayed: A Station of the Cross, Art by Lisa Samson

Lent at the Sunshine Abbey

The Sunshine Abbey Has Launched

A Broken Strand of Pearls, and My Love

Creating a Life

Me, the Child Jesus, and Birds

Grow Love, and Share It

More Year of Unknowing Stuff

The Blessing of the Throat

Blogland Security

The Naked Pregnant Woman in the Yard, Chapter 1

Good Grief

How Is It Possible...

The Year of Unknowing

Hold On to Jesus: Advent 2010

A Mansion: Advent 2010

Jesus is Coming! A Love Story: Advent 2010

Rejoice! Advent 2010

Waiting, waiting, waiting... Advent 2010

Waiting in the House of Bread: Advent 2010

I Am Waiting... Advent 2010

Finding Water

TGIF, and a Little Praise

Do I Need Quiet???

It's Rarely As Bad As You Thought It Would Be

Like a Weaned Child

The Welcoming Prayer

Or Not

I'm So Sorry

The Way to the Heart: 3D Your Whole Life, Week Five

God Speaks to Each of Us as He Makes Us:3D Week 4

I Surrender All

Come See Me!

My Head Full of Birds: Week Three; 3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE

After the Epic Fail Rant

EPIC FAIL RANT

So, I Need Some Advice

We Made it to the Second Week! WHEEEEEEE!

Hang in there!

I'm OUTTA here! Just for the Weekend.

3D YOUR WHOLE LIFE!!! And So We Commence!

Frederica Mathewes-Green and a Shining jewel of the East

Today and the Terrific Twos

Coming Soon: Our "Your Whole Life" Journey!!! Yay!!!!

Guess Who Has a Job!

3 Things

Winter Always Calls On Me In the Middle of August

O, Freedom

My Beloved....

Mea Culpa

Hope

God's Gonna Trouble the Water

PW *STILL* LOVES GOD ALONE IS ENOUGH

The Weight of Shadows: A Weighty, Beautiful Novel

No Ways Tired

Will You Join Me in My New Adventure?

BIG NEWS!!! In all caps!!! With lots of !!!s Make that VERY BIG NEWS!!!!!

Goodness Me! Where Did the Time Go!

Adventures in RBTE

Hello!!! I'm Back!

Publisher's Weekly Digs God Alone is Enough

A Rebirth

Thursday Morning

Tuesday Afternoon

Lessons from the Flowers Numbers Two and Three

Lessons from the Flowers Number One

Still Listening to My Illnesses (and God)

Listening to Your Illnesses

The Fifth Wednesday of Eastertide

Blue Tuesday

They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

Sunshine House Sabbath

Rain and Tea

The Sunshine Abbey

PW STILL LOVES GOD ALONE IS ENOUGH