The Altered Soul

It’s a painful reality…

Shocking as though it may have seemed, I eventually had to admit the truth of my existence. My pastor had some very disturbing preconceived notions about me from the very beginning of our getting to know one another, and in the end, although he would never admit it, he ended up turning against me.

This is an image I took of the most recent full moon, on the first night of CHRP, Christ Renews His Parish. When I was supposed to be in communication and communion with my community, I was instead wandering around aimlessly in the dark, down lonely country roads because I was cast out of CHRP.

The pain was palpable…

It was painful to the core. When I was originally cast out, I was devastated. I thought of myself as less than. I had given myself a thousand reasons to believe I was too broken to connect with others on any kind of level, and I flattened myself out on my bed and vegetated for weeks.

As time went on, I knew I was an outcast, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t have the emotional tools to deal with the fact that I was now marginalized from my community, and in my mind, I kept trying to reinsert myself back into it. At one point, I contacted the leader of CHRP and begged her to please meet with me face-to-face, but she couldn’t because of some impossible logistics. In my weakened state, I expected her to connect with me the next day to meetup with me, but she did not. My intention was to ask her if I could come back in, but I never got that chance.

Then, God gave me a quick millisecond-of-a-vision of her face, telling me she was in fact the very cause of my being pushed to the peripheries of my church and, at last, of society. Months went by. Things didn’t change and no one reached out to me in any significant way. That only reinforced my suffering. But, I was becoming clearer about what happened and it gave me courage.

Please don’t let me help you entertain the thought that it was becoming easier for me. It wasn’t. In fact, on the second day of the weekend retreat, all I could do was sit in my sorrow. I tried to fill up my time with outside activities, but there weren’t any. I took myself to lunch that day and cried the whole time I was in the restaurant. Being alone in a restaurant is not always an easy task and crying is not easy to cover up. In fact, the waitress saw me and asked if there was anything she could do. Of course I said no, and tried to dry my tears.

That night which was the last night of the CHRP retreat, I knew there would be a Mass in the church since I was originally part of the first team and the first retreat. Since I desperately needed the Mass, I went to church early and sat in what they call, “the cry room.” But, I had forgotten that the ladies would be having confessions that night and they all passed by me while I was sitting there. That was difficult. I didn’t want them to see me but, it was too late.

Ironically, the leader who I mentioned earlier, came into the room and tried to talk to me. At first I was shocked, and couldn’t speak but she egged me on. So I did. And I told her exactly how I felt. (to be continued…)

Well it’s been more than a year since I last put down words in this blog. So, let me just say patience is a virtue. My mind is weaving a brand new thread of ideas and words, and I will catch up with you soon. I’m sorry for the delay, but there really is more to this story. Cheers!

I wish I could remember the first time I caught sight of the cloud in my consciousness. The punishment for letting time pass by without acknowledging spiritual movement is forgetting dates and times and well, the obvious ability to string thoughts together clearly in a pattern of understanding. But that’s ok. At least I’m learning lessons of patience and willingness to love God as He wants to be loved.

The Cloud of Unknowing, with the Book of Privy Counsel.”

A New Translation by Carmen Acevedo Butcher

It was just before Covid, in 2019, when I first picked up the book, “The Cloud of Unknowing,” recommended by my, then, spiritual director in a class he was teaching on Centering Prayer. I wasn’t spiritually or intellectually ready for this book. But, I remember being enthused by the thought of a new-to-me form of prayer life. As I said before in some of my past blog entries, sometimes I see points of light as a form of God’s presence. While reading, it’s usually when He wants me to take note of something. I’ve developed the habit of marking the date and time along the margin when this happens, but it wasn’t until after I read half this book that I developed that habit. I can only say the Spirit made several acknowledgements while reading the first half of this book.

I can’t remember the exact first time I realized the Lord, God wanted me to know He would be my teacher, that He wanted me to read this book with ferver, and He wanted me to know it was important for my spiritual growth. I also can’t remember the date I put the book aside, but it was probably sometime during Covid, 2020 — 2022.

I never blogged about the time I was meditating one night when I was in prayer. With eyes closed, I was in darkness (yes, it was dark and I was in bed). From out of the darkness there appeared grayish clouds moving across my vision, which I presumed was the night sky. I remember thinking, “Oh, how beautiful.” And yet, all it appeared to be was just that — a darkness with greyish moving clouds across my vision. I never occurred to me that it was the cloud of unknowing. I should never say for sure that’s what it was, but it happened twice, at two separate times during two separate incidences.

Shortly thereafter, I put the book down for at least two solid years. I’m not sure why? Maybe because it was too much for me to comprehend. Maybe I just wasn’t ready for it. Maybe because there was too much going on in my life that I became confused and my thoughts, feelings and willpower were overcome with a confounded form of spiritual distance. It doesn’t matter why. I had read half the book.

On June 24, 2023, our Diocesan Cursillo movement sponsored a “Day of Reflection” in Jacksonville, Florida, which I attended. One of the speakers was our current Bishop, Eric Pohlmeyer. During his enlightening talk, he mentioned the book, and I made a mental note of it. So, I went home and picked up the book again and began to read where I left off. My eyes are so much more open to these ideas now that I’ve had to time process. I’m intrigued. The unknown author speaks about forgetting all our thoughts and desires while contemplating the Lord, God. He tripped me up a few times though. I didn’t comprehend how we can hide from God. My confessor explained thusly: “Instead of saying, ‘Here I am, Lord. Look at me,’” with arms outstretched, we should approach Him with all humility of body, mind and heart. This is much easier for me to understand now, after his explanation . However, the book is intense. I have many questions as I journey through the second half now. Maybe my confessor will be willing to answer some questions as time passes. I cannot know what is in his heart, so I’ll just put it out there, and let him be the judge.

Note: I’m setting this blog entry out here for those of you who haven’t heard of the book and sincerely want to advance in the spiritual life. Please govern yourselves accordingly. God Bless You.

Utreaya witness on February 10, 2023

Below you will find my witness talk, a summary of my life presented at a Ultreya event that highlights the story of my faith journey. Some of the details are repeated, or expanded upon, from earlier blog entries in another venue. This presentation is long (20 minutes) but if you read to the end, please leave a comment at the bottom of the page and let me know what you think. Cheers!

“The soul that is attached to anything however much good there may be in it, will not arrive at the liberty of Divine Union. For whether it be a strong wire rope or a slender and delicate thread that holds the bird, it matters not, if it really holds it fast; for, until the cord be broken the bird cannot fly.” St. John of the Cross

Once upon a time in a land far away, while walking out of a chapel, I was caught off-guard by a guy in the parking lot asking if I was one of the church big shots. I said, “No. I’m just a lowly apostle.” I don’t know why he asked; maybe because he always saw me there. Paragraph 14 of the Catechism states, “Those who belong to Christ through faith and baptism must confess their baptismal faith before man.” Paragraph 143 states, “By faith, man completely submits his intellect and will to God.” 

 Faith, hope and love are the Holy Spirit’s presence in the intellect and will of the whole human soul. I am not whole. I’m broken. I once told a priest I’ll never be holy, and he gave me hope.  Here’s my story.  I’m here because of an Ignatian teaching called the long pattern of discernment.  I studied under theologian, Matthew Leonard who worked with Scott Hahn and now has his own Website called “The Science of Sainthood.” He says, it’s not good to tell people your dreams, consolations, visions and spiritual experiences. But I will tell you. I’ve never fit in. 

I learned to read in kindergarten. One day, my mother wanted me off her back and said, “Go read the Bible.” So, I carried a dictionary and a huge Bible outside and read Genesis, Chapter one.  And the whole world opened up to me. That year, while jumping rope with friends, I had what psychologists call “a flashback,” a repressed memory of being carried by my father, looking over his shoulder and seeing my family standing in the first pew of Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Rochelle Park, NJ. He brought me to the altar and handed me to the priest.  I saw beautiful white rays shining through the windows and everything was crystal clear. Then suddenly it wasn’t. It was blurry, like water in my eyes.  And then it was my tears. My first communion was much more joyful. When the priest gave me the Eucharist, I felt God’s presence in that warm, stirring feeling that glows on your tongue.

I loved to play Jesus and Mary in my cousin’s back yard. She was a pretty blonde and fit the role of Mary. I was always Jesus. On May day, I built an altar with a white tablecloth in a field next to my house and filled it with hand-picked flowers and my mother’s statue of Mary. That’s where I prayed. Springtime was beautiful in New Jersey back then. When I was six, I was reprimanded for trying to convert a Jewish friend to Catholicism. I wasn’t a very good Evangelist.  

After Confirmation, I fell away from the church. Jesus said, “Be perfect,” and I believed I could never fulfill that mandate.  My mother, stepfather and younger sister moved to Florida, while I and my older siblings moved into a condemned house in Hackensack, N.J. with my dad. It was owned by a protestant school next door, which was no more than a converted 3-story house with a small parking lot separating us from the school. A woman and her teenage Puerto Rican foster girl lived on the third floor. The mom took us to the Church of the Nazarene coffeehouse for fellowship every Friday night. 

We had a diverse population in high school, and a popular black band that played “Sly and the Family Stone” songs at school dances. One band member went to the coffeehouse and preached to us teens. He invited us to come up and profess our faith, so I did. I was 17.  That faith-filled experience was short lived. After graduation, my friends and I flew to Puerto Rico on $99 roundtrip plane tickets. I told a local I didn’t believe Jesus was a real person. He said, “Jesus absolutely did live. He may not have been God, but he was a real person.” I was shocked but held onto that memory forever.  I often heard “God is within you,” but I didn’t feel it. 

Back home, I shared a bedroom with an oldest sister. One night, I was in a bad space and I said. “God, if you’re real, you need to prove it to me.” A voice said to bring my pillow and blanket and sleep on the couch. When I did, He asked if I was willing to die to myself, and I said yes. Immediately a little tornado zipped across the room and whoosh — went right into my body.   I didn’t expect it. I didn’t deserve it. But the Spirit was answering the call of me being born again.  John: 3 states, “…no one can see the kingdom of God without first being born again.” I felt at peace, but that too was short lived.

Fast forward to 2008. I was going through a separation and divorce. I had been to a Catholic Church maybe 5 times in 35 years, but I insisted my husband and I talk to a priest. It didn’t save my marriage, but I saved myself. Lent came, and I was a mess. The Holy Spirit nudged me to go to church and I did. A mission priest said Mass, and when I heard his homily, I thought, “This guy is genuine.” I later heard he was a priest at a church in town and started going there because I wanted to hear what he had to say about God. He eventually became my spiritual director and I often told him my faith was not that strong. 

I didn’t understand prayer. I relearned the Glory Be the first time I went to confession in 35 years by the priest who gave me penance. “What’s the Glory Be?” I asked, and he recited it for me. I studied a book about a guy who read Proverbs over and over for 2 years.  He said “Read Proverbs every day.  Read one chapter a day. On the last day of the month, if it falls in a month with 30 days, read two chapters.” I did that, and I learned diligence.

I went to the Easter Triduum for the first time in my life. They wanted to wash my feet on Holy Thursday, and I said no. The procession on Good Friday was heavy and emotional. But it wasn’t until the Easter Vigil, when I was prompted to put what little faith I had finally into action. The fire outside the church shined on the altar and the gong startled me. When the lector proclaimed the first reading, something touched my soul. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Shortly thereafter, I began my own lector journey, my first and most loved ministry, to be a voice for God to speak to his faithful. The Holy Spirit guided me again.  I didn’t know reading scripture to the faithful was apostolic action until years later. 

In 2014, I went to see Monuments Men at a town theater, but instead they were showing “The Son of God.” I had a profound revelation and knew I had found Christ. That’s when I began my blog. One of the first entries was about how a grade school nun urged me to say three Hail Mary’s a day for the rest of my life and Mary would come three days before I die and warn me. Of course, I never did that, but I calculated how many Hail Marys I would have to say to catch up. It was 40 a day for three-and-a half-years. And, I did it. I believe those prayers inspired me to take the first of three spiritual pilgrimages.  In 2017, I left Alachua County to photograph Catholic cathedrals up the East Coast. I slept in my car and in a tent. The first time I walked into Saint Anthony’s Chapel, in Pittsburgh, P.A., it took my breath away with the most relics in the world, second only to the Vatican. When I got back home, I blogged about everything, never realizing how that trip changed my life, until I went to the 2018 Chrism Mass, in Jacksonville. 

At lunch, I asked a friend if she loved Jesus.  She said, “Oh, Suzanne, I love him so much.” Her unbridled honesty affected me.  I asked about Divine Mercy Sunday, and she said it was a chant. So I went. When we started singing the Chaplet, something caught hold of my throat. The Holy Spirit was on fire in me. That was my reversion of faith, my fork in the road. I know I was crying over all my sins. For a long time — like months – I felt the presence of all the angels and saints in heaven rejoicing in my return home. I knew I was God’s prodigal daughter and it was that experience, which increased my faith exponentially. I wanted to reach Divine Union with God. I read the book The Fire Within, on Ibooks.

On Formed.org, I watched a movie, read a book, or listened to an Augustine Institute talk each night. I learned about Guigo’s Ladder and Contemplacio. I watched Father Dave Pivonka’s Wild Goose and relearned that even Catholics can believe in being born again like Protestants do, that there really is a thing about being baptized in the Holy Spirit and Fire, that it makes you different. It sets you apart.  If you’ve never watched the Baptism of the Holy Spirit and Fire, episode 3, I urge you to.  The book, “The Way of the Pilgrim” taught me how to pray without ceasing.  Mathew Leonard’s audio, “Three Stages of the Spiritual Life,” taught me it really is possible to become a saint. But it’s hard. God uses us and purifies us in the refiner’s fire and molds us. I’m no closer to a saint, but now I have the tools to pursue it. 

On August 9, 2018 I went to confession.  The next morning, at Mass after communion, I thanked God for all he had given me. With eyes closed, I saw a huge hole open up in the ceiling , and a pale-yellow light shined on a man sitting a few rows ahead of me. I never noticed him. I opened my eyes to see a man hunched over in that exact spot.  After Mass, as he left, I meant to speak until I saw his face. It was contorted in extreme agony and maybe even anger, and I froze.  I later told the priest what happened and said, “maybe that vision wasn’t meant for me, but he assured me it was.  I didn’t know why it happened until 4 years later and I’m still waiting to do God’s will.  

I watched a Baptism later that year. As the assembly witnessed a toddler’s doorway introduction, I wondered about my own baptism. God heard my question because I recalled that flashback I mentioned earlier. But this time there was more. I heard the priest say, “Here, you take her” in a disgusted tone. I recalled my mom telling me I was screaming at my Baptism.  Yes. I was a screamer.  She wasn’t happy about it. “Maybe it was Shirley,” she said. “No. No, it was you.”

In 2019, I was asked to lead a 5-week Divine Mercy retreat, culminating in a church-wide consecration on Divine Mercy Sunday. My Baptism anniversary fell on Good Friday that year and that was an omen I was about to truly die to self.  As I prepared, I knew “consecration” was the most important part.  Somehow, I found John 17.   Jesus was praying his high priestly prayer and asking the Father to consecrate us all.  I stopped dead in my tracks in a God moment, when a lightbulb lit up in my brain.  “Consecrate them in the truth. Your word is truth.” John: 17.

A month after the Consecration, I was traumatized. That soul crushing experience was so insufferable it led me to where we are today. My prayer life was interrupted. My life was put on hold, and my faith was challenged. I was in so much pain I knew I had to either find joy in suffering or die. About prayer, Matthew Leonard says, “Don’t stop.”  So, I pushed through the grief. God was allowing it to happen as a much-needed sacrifice and purification.  I’ll always be a sinner.We’re taught we all must suffer, and sometimes that spiritual affliction is forever.  The longer I live, the more God exposes my flaws.

In 2020, I lost almost all of my hearing. But, I know God allowed that to happen and I believe it was so I could hear Him speak to me in prayer.

Study is good. Also in 2020, I did the Spiritual Exercises. I just did two years of the BIAY. Now, I’m doing the CIAY. This past Advent, I joined the 25-day Advent Challenge on Hallow. On day one, they read John: 1. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” On Friday, January 13^th, I had another painful spiritual setback, but I amped up my prayer and presence in front of the Holy Eucharist. Yesterday, I was brought low again, by the same person. But it was necessary and needed, and it humbled me. I live on the peripheries anyway, so it’s like being in the Wilderness with the Israelites. I’m familiar with the Wilderness. It is not new to me. Sometimes, I even find joy there. Scripture helps me to navigate the mysteries of my heart and to move with God. I’m lucky to have been able to hold onto my faith. Not everyone has been given that grace.  On January 17, I heard a homily about hope, and I wept. He said, “…love is the end of our journey, hope is the middle and faith is the beginning.” I began praying for hope.

Some of my most cherished Bible verses are: 

*Let those who are friendly to you be many, but one in a 1000, your confidant. When you gain friends, gain them through testing. Sirach: Chapter 6.

*Hear! Oh, Israel the commandments of life. Listen, and know prudence. Baruch: Chapter 3.

* When you pray, go to your inner room, close the door and pray to your Father in secret. Matthew: 6.

*The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. John: 1.

A priest once told me God doesn’t grant extraordinary graces, consolations, or spiritual experiences to people because they are special, or holy. He does it because they need it. I thought Cursillo would save me but, Cursillo doesn’t make me holy. It isn’t a miracle prescription. It’s an outlet to share our faith and God’s truth working in us. The Holy Spirit always does the rest.

Saw the movie ”Alive” today but my walk was wonky. That’s because I had a severe Ménière’s attack yesterday while attending the holy hour of Divine Mercy at church no less. I literally could not move. Didn’t someone once say that miracles happen in the presence of the Eucharist? Well, I must admit that God speaks to me in very mysterious ways!

Yep. God was messing with my body or allowing the evil one to mess with me, for sure. I was most certainly a physical mess.

But it was in this gut-wrenching debilitating body sickness that my Lord brought me to my knees and made me all the more stronger — stronger for love of Him, stronger because I didn’t need to mortify. It was done for me. And in all this, I had an enlightenment for my next confession.

AMEN

In the crevices of the mind, in every man and woman, there lies a dark place closed to most of the world. This is common knowledge. It happens over time with experience, discernment and contemplation. I believe God doesn’t want us to be open with everyone. He wants our total commitment to Him. He knows who we are and that is what matters. Thank you, Lord God, for giving me the wherewithal to keep my blog relatively unknown. I cannot share my deepest thoughts otherwise.

Only about four people know me and one has been relegated to the background. I see one of them a couple times a week and we may talk for a few seconds, or minutes, or maybe an hour per month, if I approach him. He is my spiritual director who has mixed emotions about me. His opinion is guarded because he knows more than I know about myself. He has been the recipient of others’ opinions about me. I’m ambivilant about that. The other person talks to me about once a year. She does not have access to the people with whom I come in daily contact because she lives in Louisiana. She only hears my side of the story. She is not Catholic, so her opinion differs from someone who is Catholic. That is the backstory.

This is the front story:

The pope has asked the people of the world to give him their opinions. He wants to see how his church is living up to the Church’s Creed. The pope has called for a worldwide listening session. Every Catholic church is being asked to participate in what the pope is calling a “Synod on Synodality,” and my pastor is enthusiastically preparing for our church to participate, on Thursday. The pope wants us to tell him how well he and his brethren are listening to the people on the ground. And, my spiritual director, who is also my pastor, wants everyone in his church community to come to the event. About a month ago, my pastor asked if I will be there, on February 3, and I said, “I’m not going to that.” He said, “OK.”

Since then, the pastor has been announcing the Synod at all Masses in our church. He has been describing it, and inviting us, and saying he wants us all to be there. He has added snacks and refreshments and social hour beforehand to draw people in. He really wants this to succeed.

The trouble with me:

On November 22, 2021, my pastor, acting also as my spiritual advisor and a support person, attended a tribunal meeting with me and three other church Fathers. I gave a 20-minute statement begging for help and forgiveness, to which I was chastised and berated. The Father, who I was trying to reconcile with, was unwilling and unprepared. He changed his story right from the start and no one even blinked an eye. They did, however, place serious restrictions on me because he asked for them. The results of that meeting were written up and sent to the highest church Father in our Diocese, the bishop, who acknowledged, accepted and concurred with the other church Fathers.

My dilemma:

The Church often alludes to people who live on the peripheries. There are millions who do and I am one of those people. There is even a massive number of churches that will not participate in the synod. So, I ask, how do I, in good conscience, attend a Synodal gathering, knowing my voice will never be heard? If I were to go, how would I even voice my opinion in a community that knows nothing about this meeting with these church Fathers, who did not listen to me? Do I go and not add my voice? What would be the purpose of that? How do I break free from the shame these church Fathers have placed on me? My inner voice tells me I will never break free. I’ll note here — the bishop will also be attending the meeting on February 3rd. There are so many variables and these are the voices screaming at me from the depths of my soul. I trust my pastor has at least some idea about how I feel, think and am trying to decide whether to go to this upcoming event. Yet, he has not voiced his opinion nor given me any feedback. And, I ask for it now?

Please, Lord God, hear my prayer. Amen!

I know what my soul needs to survive! It needs to help people, to talk them through life’s hardest trials and deepest hurts. It needs to help people with heavier-than-average burdens, particularly men. I’ve always been better with men. Men find it hard to open up. They need to trust and feel trusted. I like to think of them as reluctant travelers through the murk and muck of life’s emotional turmoil, unlike women who make their emotions an essential part of their beings.

I tried to imagine what would have happened if I had dared to go out and talk to the man that day — the man in the chapel who I wrote about in my previous blog entry. If I had not ignored him, I wonder what would have happened? I imagine he would have been skeptical at first. Maybe he would have waved me away or ignored me the way I ignored him.

I’ll never know.

But, if I could imagine, I believe he would have opened up to me. I believe he would have ranted and raved at the world and wouldn’t give up. I imagine I would have listened for a very long time, until he broke down and cried. I imagine I would have told him how blessed he was, knowing God had just shined a certain, separate and distinct huge light upon him. I imagine his face would have begun to relax, and I could see his soul in the light of Christ. That is what I imagine could have happened, if I had gone out to talk to him that day.

I have been dwelling on this scene now for days on end. It has been a mystery to me for three and a half years, and now I understand what happened the day I saw the man, before I opened my eyes. God works in no uncertain mysterious ways. He knows what we all need and sometimes, if the right two people happen to be in the same general area together, he’s going to use them. We are, after all, his hands and feet.

Yes, I regret my inaction tremendously.

But, I also know I can’t go back no matter how much I want to. Yes, I want to go back and do it all over again. God, please? I can ask God to give me a second chance, but it is always up to him whether he grants that wish or not. I cannot know until, if and when, it happens again. I have prayed for the grace. I have asked God to forgive me. I know I’ve been forgiven because I confessed it, albeit as an afterthought, but still. Just because I’ve been forgiven doesn’t mean I’m not still suffering. Look at what happened to me after the confession.

And yet, my life goes on.

I’ve grown accustomed to not knowing and understanding exactly what that vision means, until now. I’ve wept over it. I’ve felt extreme remorse because of it, and I have begged for mercy and a second chance.

Now, all I can do is wait.

Waiting is a virtue, I know — one I’ve never been in possession of. I pray for the grace to receive a second chance. Please, Heavenly Father, receive my prayer. In Jesus’ name. Amen!

If someone were to ask me, “what does a heart that is breaking look like?” I would say it looks like this: a flower, in God’s garden that is moved by a change in its natural color and form. It is not always a flower. Sometimes it’s a weed, like this dandelion above. But, it is always changing, never the same and forever dying in time.

Why do I mention this, you may wonder. Well, because I think I am dying of a broken heart, one heartbeat at a time. I don’t have a firm explanation, other than sometimes, I feel an intense, dull pain during one heartbeat, right in the middle of my chest. I woke up this morning to one. And, just as I was typing this paragraph, I felt it again. I honestly do not know why I’m talking about this here, other than the fact that there are only four or five people who even know about this page. And, if I were to guess, I don’t think anyone ever visits here.

Something happened to me in late November of 2021, that I think has changed me forever. I cannot talk about it. It’s a part of me now, and it’s shame-filled. But, It’s something I have to live with for the rest of my life, however long that may be. And, yes, it has to do with my spiritual life. It’s a cross God has given me, and though I’m not sure how well I am carrying that cross, it’s with me all the same. It is with me now, forever.

Some may think I am a pitiful fool, who is — out of desperation — just feeling sorry for myself. And, yes, that may be true. I’ve known heartbreak in my life and I have broken free of the pain before. But, this. This is different. This is part of my makeup. This is not part of my past. This is my present and my future. This is my punishment for the sins of my fathers and myself. I feel it in my bone marrow. I feel it in my brain and all the way down to the tips of my toes.

As an aside, my spiritual director is sick with Covid, and I am worried. It hurts my soul all the more. I pray for him, but I know that only God can be at his side. Please Heavenly Father, take due care of him. He is precious in your eyes. Please keep him in the living garden of your love. AMEN!

For now, this blog entry is supposed to be about me. But, I die inside with all that the world is coming to. I die to self. I die to others and I die for love of God. I do not know how long I will be on this earth, but please know this. I am dying, one heartbeat at a time.

And there is more. I do not recall the last time I cried at home. I always seem to cry while in the presence of the Eucharist, at church, but never at home. When I was separated, from 2008 through 2011, I cried all the way home from work — a 117 mile trek — for a year. But, I always stopped crying when I was home. So, this is different. This is something new. This is not normal for me. Something deeper is happening to my soul.

There is no hope for revival when the color turns to black. There is only despair. Wow, this blog entry sounds sooo gloomy. May the Lord grant that his light may one day fill the darkness that is my soul.

Blessings…