Merton travels around Cuba . . .
Often I left one church and went to hear another Mass in another church, especially if the day happened to be Sunday, and I would listen to the harmonious sermons of the Spanish priests, the very grammar of which was full of dignity and mysticism and courtesy. After Latin, it seems to me there is no language so fitted for prayer and for talk about God as Spanish: for it is a language at once strong and supple, it has its sharpness, it has the quality of steel in it, which gives it the accuracy that true mysticism needs, and yet it is soft, too, and gentle and pliant, which devotion needs, and it is courteous and suppliant and courtly, and it lends itself surprisingly little to sentimentality. It has some of the intellectuality of French but not the coldness that intellectuality gets in French: and it never overflows into the feminine melodies of Italian. Spanish is never a weak language, never sloppy, even on the lips of a woman.
The fact that while all this was going on in the pulpit, there would be Cubans ringing bells and yelling lottery numbers outside in the street seemed to make no difference. For a people that is supposed to be excitable, the Cubans have a phenomenal amount of patience with all the things that get on American nerves and drive people crazy, like persistent and strident noise. But for my own part, I did not mind any of that any more than the natives did.
When I was sated with prayers, I could go back into the streets, walking among the lights and shadows, stopping to drink huge glasses of iced fruit juices in the little bars, until I came home again and read Maritain or St. Teresa until it was time for lunch.
And so I made my way to Matanzas and Camagüey and Santiago—riding in a wild bus through the olive-grey Cuban countryside, full of sugar-cane fields. All the way I said rosaries and looked out into the great solitary ceiba trees, half expecting that the Mother of God would appear to me in one of them. There seemed to be no reason why she should not, for all things in heaven were just a little out of reach. So I kept looking, looking, and half expecting. But I did not see Our Lady appear, beautiful, in any of the ceiba trees.
No, I have not been travelling around Cuba like Merton. That is not the reason for my long absence from blogging. I haven't been seeing visions of Out Lady floating above Lake Superior. Although that would be really cool. And I haven't "taken a break" from social media, as people do every once in a while for various reasons. Nope.
The explanation for why I haven't written a blog post in nearly a week is simpler (and lamer) than that: I've been tired. From long days of working and teaching and grading. Trying to be a good father and husband and friend. Plus, I find Holy Week emotionally taxing, too. There's something about all the ritual and reading of the gospel crucifixion narratives in the liturgy that sort of wipes me out. And then, two days ago, I got my second dose of COVID vaccine. That pretty much did me in for yesterday and most of today.
Those are my excuses. Even saints need time to recharge. And Jesus. After he did things like heal a bunch of lepers or feed a crowd of five thousand people, he would always sneak away for some alone time. I assume to recharge his God batteries.
I'm sitting on the couch in my living room right now, listening to birds sing outside., It's approaching dusk, and there's a whole lot of feathery conversation going on in my yard. Spring has arrived in my little corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The other evening, as I was walking my puppy, I heard an orchestra of peepers. The sound sort of cracked me open like a tulip bulb.
As I said, these last seven days have not been filled with heavenly visions, despite the Easter season. But I did receive one particular message that I believe was heaven sent. You see, I struggle with dark moods all the time. My life situation has been challenging these last couple years. I do my best to battle these moods, but, sometimes, they get the better of me.
The other morning, I woke to rain and thunder. A early spring downpour. Since Easter Sunday, off and on, I'd been battling darkness. The sound of those bullets of water striking the windows was almost painful. I didn't think I was going to be able to pull myself together enough to go to work or school. I said a little prayer as I brushed my teeth: "God, help help help help please help." (I say versions of this prayer often.)
After getting dressed, I went to my puppy's kennel and unlatched the gate. She came roaring out of the kennel, dervished on the floor a few times, and then threw herself on her back and looked up at me. I laughed out loud. For the first time in days.
It was a heavenly vision. Just as much as Jesus appearing to the apostles in the upper room. Or the Virgin Mary popping up at Fatima or Lourdes. I got the message.
Usually, when I pray, I'm very specific. I think I know exactly how God should answer my prayer. I know this is the height of hubris. Pretty much I'm tapping God on the shoulder and telling him how to do his job. It doesn't hurt anything to pray for a banana split if you want a banana split. However, God might just send you Cobb salad instead, because that's what you need.
My puppy, lying on her back in front of me, was the vision of surrender. She was showing me her belly, looking up at me with complete trust. She knew that I was going to give her exactly what she needed. A treat. A full body rub. Or a spin around the house so she could empty her bladder.
That's what my prayer was that morning. Me, flopping on my back and staring up at God. My puppy gave me that theological insight. And I found myself lighter. Almost happy. Because I knew God was going to give me exactly what I needed to make it through the day.
The darkness I've been feeling this last week hasn't completely abated. But, I have found some inner peace. That peace is simple, too. It's a recognition of grace. Waking in the morning and knowing that God is going to be there to open the door. Let in light. Take me for a walk. Give me a treat.
Marty--patron saint of good dogs.
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