Do Not Be Weary

 

I am a practicing Catholic, emphasis on the practice part. Practice thus far has not made anything close to perfect, but if, as Thomas Merton suggested the desire to please the Lord is pleasing to Him, then I am less worried about the cacophanous notes.

The thing is, though, the practice even, can be a drag. I don't mean by this that I don't WANT to try, but that sometimes trying is antithetical to the emotion of the moment. You (if I'm lucky) three readers of this blog may remember the one recently where I talked about the tendency to curse when another driver does something I feel disses humanity, with the dissing of this particular human in humanity being the triggering event. Well today was beyond some one person, and if I complained openly, I would look like, maybe even be, a jerk.

And then today, there was a bigger, distressing backdrop, the Malibu Fires, the Canyon fires, seven fires, property loss, the marring of what is genuinely some of the most beautiful country to wake up to. And it was being destroyed.

I couldn't stop watching the news about the fire, and so I left a little later than I usually do to pick up my dad for Church. I was still early--we tend to go early--but I was later than is common for the two of us because I was watching the fireman heroically standing their ground against unpredictable wind that fanned the fires they were barely controlling with helicopter water drops and ordinary hoses.

When I left, I realized that it was also the day for a charity walk, one of several that occur in my neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods during the year. It means that most key streets, the ones that the area dwellers need to get around to do weekend chores and, like me, go to whatever service is usual for them, are closed off. And there is usually ONE alternative, as was true today from my father's home to the church.

There was no one guiding the traffic and people cut in from gas stations, from alleys, from narrowing lanes, in a disorderly way that meant those of us who waited in the proper lines never seemed to move. Knowing where I was going, I tried not to blast the charity event, the police who were standing at blockaded streets chatting with one another, and the various mondo vehicles that improvised methods around the rest of us trying to be good citizens. My father had several solutions to the congestion, none of which I can repeat here.  I pointed out, hey dad, we're going to Church and should at least try to be marginally forgiving. He said that there are some things Church just doesn't cover. Well, I don't know about that. Still, I couldn't disagree that such large events ignore the needs of the people who live and work in an area with a kind of self-righteous obliviousness (is that possible?). On the other hand, they'd probably say that it's not like they do it all the time, and sometimes the greater good has to take precedence. Get over it. Part of the problem I guess is that we don't all agree about what is the greater good. We pressed on, each of us having a role at the 12:15, he an usher, me a lector. Not that they couldn't do without us, and my guess was, a lot of people were simply not going to make it. Then there is this silly sort of prideful thing on my part. I just feel like the harder "they" are making it for me to do this, get to the Church, the harder I have to try. I say prideful, cause I am not sure that the Lord has much to do with it, and that it is not a little bit of bravado, one-up man ship, see, I could do it, you couldn't stop me sort of stuff. . . .As usual I digress.

As my father posed worst case scenarios, I saw that we'd probably be only about five minutes late, having made the turn onto the Church's block, and we could both slip in  slightly the worse for wear, though probably not in a particularly prayerful mood. The contrast was never more simply marked between the things of this world and what we were trying to get to--the things of heaven. The world was definitely ahead.

If there were 20 people in the church when we arrived, that was a lot. The priest had one server and I slid into my lector garb (I put on a too small size) and into the altar area. I just hit it for the first reading, and did the wrong one. As did Martin, because the Book had not been turned to the right page.

It wasn't till after the Gospel, when I went to the other side of the altar that I finally settled down, calmed by the San Damiano Cross that hangs above the tabernacle, and by the homily that reminded us of our need to trust God in the face of the trials of our life, whatever they may be. 

The storm passed. It was ok. I was there. I hadn't cursed once. And I received the Eucharist with a too transient joy.

My dad and I went to Petco which was trying to adopt out a whole bunch of cats and kittens, and he opined on the destructive profligacy of nature.    

Do not be weary, I thought, for He is with us. Well, that's what this djinn believes in between the existential thrashing.