"Worrying does not empty tomorrow of its trouble

...it empties today of its strength."

"A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity;
an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty."

This prayer is often called "St. Patrick's Breastplate" because of those parts of it which seek God's protection.  It is also sometimes called "The Deer's Cry" or "The Lorica".

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of demons,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

For our Christ Renews His Parish testamonies, we needed to choose a song to go with our witness.  I struggled between two.  One is contempory and the other is traditional.  I balanced this by putting one at the beginning and one at the end.

Lover of My Soul

~Amy Grant

When I see the winter turning into spring,
O, it speaks to this heart of mine more than anything.
Underneath the blanket of snow, cold and white
Something is stirrin’ in the still of night.

And the sun comes up, slowly with the dawn,
O, this is the kind of feeling that I hang my hope upon.
There is a love and beauty in all that I see,
No one, no body is explainin’  you to me.

Maybe my eyes can’t see you, but you are surrounding me
Here in the wind and rain, things that I know;
Tender and sweet, strong as my need
I know the voice, I know the touch, Lover of my soul

When the evening comes, sunlight fades away,
Time and time and time again, I whisper in my head.
Give me strength, give me faith to fully believe,
That the maker of this whole wide world is a Father to me.

Maybe my eyes can’t see, but you are surrounding me,
Here in the wind and rain, things that I know;
Tender and sweet, strong as my need,
I know the voice, I know the touch,
I need the voice, I need the touch, Lover of my soul

Maybe my eyes can’t see, but you are surrounding me,
Here in the wind and rain, things that I know;
So tender and sweet, and true, strong as my need,
I know the voice, I know the touch,
I know the voice, I know the touch, Lover of my soul

 

O.T. ~Jeremiah (1:5)  ...the word of the Lord came to me saying,  "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you”

Each of us has a personal history that shapes and molds who we will become in the Body of Christ.  Within this predestined place and time, we are given free will to accept or reject God’s personal plan for our salvation and eternal life. 

While sharing our personal histories, I become aware that the pain, loneliness and poverty of my own childhood was merely a preparation, a tilling of the soil.  

I was born in 1950, growing up on a farm just twenty miles outside of Fort Wayne. 

The farmhouse was built in 1860.  In 1948, when my parents moved in, it was wired for electricity, but there was no indoor plumbing.  There was a cistern pump in the kitchen which utilized rain water for bathing, washing clothes and dishes.  A deep well pump, for drinking water, was outside near the barnyard. 

The house was heated by a wood burning furnace with one large grate in the dining room.  Every door in the house seemed designed to open off of this room, so that the house could be opened or closed up according to the weather.  The kitchen and dining room were the main living quarters in the winter months for our family of nine.

When the winter temperature reached extreme cold, we would all sleep on a mattress on the dining room floor, seven children lined sideways across a double mattress. 

Of these seven children, one was my mother’s, a child of wartime.  She had not been married.

Three belonged to my father and his first wife, who had died shortly after their youngest was born.

Three were from their union... my brother, myself, and my younger sister. 

My father was an alcoholic.  He would be sober for long periods of time, and then go on a “drunk” lasting anywhere from one week to three months.  

The relationship between my parents was such that I had no respect for marriage.   They, and we children suffered through anger, abuse and neglect. 

When drinking, he often undermined her discipline by telling the children of his first marriage “You don’t have to listen to her, she’s not your mother”.  This only served to fuel an angry intolerance within her.  

He was often mean to her son, even when sober.

Each of us children had different trials in this emotionally estranged family.  We were all poor students, having no pattern of support at home to guide and structure us. 

I was the 2nd youngest child.  I learned by watching.  At an early age, I became very “old” and withdrawn.  My mom immersed herself in physical work in order to deal with her angry tension.  Whenever working with her, I never knew when blows would fall on my head, nor what triggered her storms of anger.  As I grew older, and my brothers left home, I found I could escape from her by working in the fields with my father. 
 

I loved living on this farm.  I loved sleeping in the fields at night, experiencing the different temperatures of the various clefts and hollows of the land.  I loved the homeyness of milk cows whose lead cow would respond to my mother’s call from the barnyard and bring the herd in for evening milking. 

I loved my father’s serious humor of telling troublesome cows they were making a big name for themselves... and calling them hamburger.  I loved the warmth and tears of living so close to nature.  We tended and loved it, yet sacrificed it; because it really did become our food or we would die.

I discovered books.  In my free time, I could disappear into the fields or on rainy days, to the hayloft and escape in time and place.  In the winter, they put dimension to the crowded two-room quarters.

I acquired through my dad’s example, a fear of anything addictive.  It made me cautious not only of tobacco and alcohol... but also protected me during my decade of cultural drug use.  Any drugs I used, I used sparsely.  

My father did not like the possession that overcame him.  During his bouts with alcohol, he would call various ministers trying to find help... always through religion.  I sat in on these visits.  Watching my father’s struggle ignited a quest for God in my own soul. 

We attended the church nearest our farm.  Ironically, for an alcoholic, it was Methodist.  Our Mennonite neighbors included us in their summer Bible school programs.  When I was in Jr. High, I began attending a Nazarene church with another neighborhood family. 

As I put my history together, I realize my first experience with the Catholic church was through my dad.  He asked me to drive him to the Crosier house, to talk to one of the Brothers, whom he had become acquainted with through an outreach program for alcoholics. 

This was the first person I had ever heard talk to my father in a way that reached directly to the heart.  He made a deep impression on me. 

My mother is a natural soul.  She dislikes established religion, saying church should be outside, not in a building; that baptism should be God’s rain falling upon us.  She always encouraged my younger sister and I to interpret our dreams.  She would read our palms.  My sister developed a natural touch for reading Tarot cards.  My sister and I used the Ouija board fluently.
 
In my childhood I had developed a tremendous love for God.  It became almost an obsessive exclusion of Jesus, as if my child soul felt God were neglected.   So, it was not Jesus whom I was seeking... I thought I already knew him, simply because I knew about him.

My natural sister and I were psychically bonded.  But as I continued my diverse religious quest, studying Buddhism and Hinduism in my search, we grew distant.  She said I had turned from a “solid” into “liquid”.  This intended insult served to confirm my path.  These two eastern religions often used illustrations of the persistent gentle power of water and time over rock.

After graduation, I moved into the city.  Women’s Liberation was creating a social  morality.  The thought came to me that I could have a child and not have to have a husband.  In my eyes, having a child outside of marriage was acceptable if I could financially support myself and my child without the stigma of social aid.

 

My daughter was born just before my 22nd birthday.  Having tagged along after older brothers and sisters and learning with little parental intervention, I truly thought children raised themselves!  I did my daughter a great injustice.

Although I lived in the heart of a culture that “redefined morality” and romanticized sexual promiscuity, I chose the eastern path of celibacy... sexual energy consumed spiritual energy, and sating the desires of my body subdued my spiritual desires. 

We, my daughter and I, lived very simply: no TV, no phone, no car.  I rode a bike and she rode in a backpack.  Eating natural foods was almost a religion with me.  From conception, to birth, to the age of 3, my daughter grew up almost entirely vegetarian.  I had one episode during my pregnancy when I “craved” (of all things) canned corned beef. 

My spiritual reading at this time was primarily Hindu and Buddhist.  These writings brought me a long way, and they give great intellectual support.  But they lacked life.  They centered on contemplating the living physical world and brought the mind and spirit together, but they did not nourish my soul, merely “awakened” it.

New Age attracted me... it held a place for dreams, voices and visions... and it respectfully addressed itself as a religion.

~  John 10:1-5, 9,10  

"Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheephold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit.  The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep.  The gate keeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice.  He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.  When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him, because they know his voice.  they will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.”

“I am the gate.  Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.  The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.  I came that you might have life and have it more abundantly.”

While following the alluring voices that spoke to me, a vision of Mary came.  I had never looked seriously into the Catholic Church.  I thought one had to be “born” into this religion.  It seemed “closed” to the public. 

I would find her “walking beside me”, as if on the other side of a glass wall, leading me to the invisible doorway that I might come in.

This vision planted the seed.  It took no more than an invitation found in a TV Guide... a picture of Mary and an offer of information on what Catholics believed.  It was the only time I had ever found the Catholic door opened with an invitation for introspection. 

I had been attending a Lutheran church and Sunday school.  My daughter was now in school, and I wanted for her more stable religious roots than I had had.  

We began attending Mass at the Crosier House.  This felt almost Lutheran.    

Feeling a little braver, I entered the doors of St. Vincent.  For 28 years, I had passed by this church... always curious, knowing there was a hidden ritual even to enter a Catholic church... some mystery of women covering their hair.
 

I understand now, that I have Vatican II to be grateful for the “throwing wide” of these doors, as the Church opened its heart for the World to come in.

I took the next step and enrolled my daughter in St. Vincent school.  Afterward, I sat in the parking lot, feeling the peace of the Spirit surround me.  There is a special blessing of community in this blending of church and school. 

I began Catholic instructions at St. Vincent.   But my Greater Instruction came through the unaware example of the parish priest.  Through him, the Holy Spirit introduced me to the Mystery of the Church. 

As I knelt before Mass, I noticed His priest standing off to the side talking to someone.  I was some distance away, and I was trying to make out the features of who he was talking to... and then, Father turned and walked away... and I saw that there was no one there.  There was only the Tabernacle.

And again, at Communion time, while I remained kneeling in the pew, I became aware of the subtle sound of movement in the long procession of people as they passed by, receiving communion and moving on... like the steady flow of Blood through tHis Body.

I began dating a divorced Catholic.  This postponed my entrance into this church.  He had applied for an annulment, but if it were not granted, I would not be able to receive full Communion if I married this man.

It was three years before the annulment was granted and we married in 1982.

Marriage for me is a penance, an opportunity to correct broken things from my past, and also from my husband’s broken marriage.

I have helped raise his grandchildren as their parents struggled to get financially stable after college.  My grandsons are my greatest penance.  I experienced through them what I was not allowed, as a single working mom, with my own daughter. 

I watched the first two for 12 hours a day, five days a week.  The oldest was 12 mo. when I began sitting.  My daughter in law gave birth to the second child two months later.  These two are 14 month apart. 

They trampled through my heart until it resembled a muddy playground, covered in tiny footprints.  As more little boys came into this family, their mom looked for work she could do at home.  My involvement with these children slowly eased.  It has been a very beautiful experience being loved by these five little boys.

With my own daughter, it is more that we went through childhood together... as companions.  I experienced with her the joys of being a child.  My own had been so full of anxiety.

With my grandsons, I grew up.  I became a caregiver and teacher.

I need to touch briefly on my own daughter.  She is a Muslima.  She has been Muslim for about 3 years.  She was married this past March in Maryland to a young man of similar upbringing.  He was born and raised Catholic.  He has been Muslim for 10 years.

She, too, is following a Vision.  I feel peace in my heart at the role God has chosen for her among these people, who are also children of Abraham through Ishmael.  There was a time I worried about my daughter’s eternal soul... but no longer. 
 

Upon her conversion to Islam, we both had the same mystical experience, within the same week, a thousand miles apart.  I, at Holy Mass, and she while walking at sunset, discerning her heart.

When I chose the Catholic Church, I put aside my mystical gifts, which I labeled “occult”.  For the first 15 years in tHis Church, I was put in the desert.  Then, one day, the Spring rains came and everything that had lain dormant came to Life. 

He truly makes “all things new”.  These gifts had been tarnished and torn, now they shimmered and flowed. 

I was aware of the “cracking” in the dry well of my heart.  I had an image of water slowly seeping in from a New Spring breaking through.

During Holy Mass, visions of balconies and stairways began appearing hodgepodge about the altar.  Luminous Beings gathered tHere.  Their numbers always vary and they arrive randomly.  I like to think they are drawn to celebrate with us through our love and our prayers.

As the visions took life, I became a little worried.  Were not institutions full of people who saw and heard things?  As I read and heard stories of the saints of old, the word “schizophrenia” came to mind.  If I were indeed crazy, I was in good company.  As long as I remained consecrated to Him, I would find sanctuary. 

Does He not “choose the weak and make them strong”?

I was on a threshold.  I could step into the beaconing dimension of mysticism, or I could turn away and lose myself in the busy sanity of the physical world.

~  John 6:60-69

When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult, who can accept it?”  But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, “Does this offend you?  Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before?  It is the spirit that gives life, the flesh is useless.  The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.  But among you, there are some who do not believe.”  For Jesus knew from the first who were the ones that did not believe, and who was the one that would betray him.  And he said, “For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted by the father.”  Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him.  So Jesus asked the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?”  Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom can we go?  You have the words of eternal life.  We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God”.

A Change of Heart   The feast of St. James ... During his homily, our priest mentioned the Book of James was one of the shortest Books and we might want to take a few minutes on his day to read it.

At home, I took my Bible into the garden.  I imagined being in this town when James was speaking, of being an ordinary person living life fairly and lawfully and hearing this man preach condemning words at me. 

I struggled with my understanding.... I would have stoned him too! 

I put this book down... and I said out loud: “O, Lord, change my heart!”

And suddenly, Jesus was before me.  He dropped down on both knees and put His hand and head against my chest and gave a deep groan “I thought you would never ask”.
 

O.T. ~Jeremiah (30:12...15)    For thus saith the Lord: Your wound is incurable, your injury past healing.  There is no one to care... no medicine to make you well again.  All your lovers have forgotten you...  So great is your guilt, so many your sins...

~ Mark 2:17
Jesus heard this and said to them, “Those who are well do not need a physician, but those who are sick (do).  I have come not to call the righteous but sinners.”

During the next few weeks, as I sat alone before the tabernacle after daily Mass, I felt the most intense emotional pain, as if an unseen hand was deep inside my chest.  Christ, the Physician, was performing surgery... without anesthesia.

One day, Jesus walked by and nonchalantly tossed something in my lap.  He waited as I picked it up.  It resembled a child’s small basketball, blown out... empty, hollow.  He walked away, leaving me with my confused thoughts.

Interpretation came through writings of the saints.  Mystics called it a “change of heart”.  In the old testament, I read of what Moses called “circumcise of the heart”.

All I needed to do was “ask”.  He did all the work.  We need only to endure and hold fast through the changes. 

~ Mark 4:26-27  "The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how."

In our Rebirth, we are carried in the womb of the Church.   In this sanctuary, we grow as an unborn child grows and forms without effort on its part, nourished through the mother.  We are sustained by His Body, Blood and Word.

You will not see anyone who is really striving after his advancement
who is not given to spiritual reading. And as to him who neglects it,
the fact will soon be observed by his progress. -St. Athanasius

I have found, in my unseen journey, an Atlas created by the Catholic Church, the Liturgy of Hours.  It is a required daily devotion of some orders of religious and priests. 

Another beautiful work of devotion is Divine Intimacy, created for the Carmelite order.  This one I read with care, for this is a strict order.  In its purist form, it strives for detachment even of human friendships, bonding only with souls.  It is the Order of some of our Churches greatest Mystics.

The Holy Spirit tutored me using visions and locutions, and affirmations embedded deeply in the Holy Mass.  I struggled with my sitting at the tabernacle.  I racked my brain trying to discern His will for me.  There must be something I was meant to do.

Always, He would show me groups of people chosen to perform earthly chores.  Always, He would point His arm directing me to the tabernacle. 

Then, I was asked to leave this secluded, intimate sanctuary.  One morning, as I sat before the Tabernacle, the angels literally dragged me to another parish.  I was pulled through a tunnel of Beings.  As I passed through, they asked questions. “What gifts do you bring?”  I remember reciting a litany of virtues....