This morning in mass I sat behind a young family with two boys. The father and one boy sat near the aisle while the mother held the younger boy on her lap. As the mass progressed, I saw her occasionally stroking her boy’s back and, when sitting, letting him press his face to hers. The action seemed mostly without thought, revealing an almost unconscious connection, the sharing of space between a mother and child. As the mass wore on, and as the boy became more restless, he began to physically distance himself from his mom and pull at his father’s hand. When he was ignored, the boy then began to occupy the space between his parents, tugging back and forth on fingers and clothes until his mother once again came into his physical space. This time her face was not smiling, though not unkind, and she whispered something that got him to sit more quietly for the next five minutes. As he sat between them with his head down, he touched neither of them. I could not see his face, so I cannot guess what he felt. He dwelt, seemingly disconnected from his parents, with mere inches on either side, in a space that had been created for him.

At times in my life I have turned to God and felt the grace of mercy blessing my own face with kisses. I have known the warm embrace of friends and family that removed all sense of fear and longing. I have felt the space between my loved ones diminish, and drawn close enough to sense the tips of the Spirit’s wings brushing each of our hearts, for one moment knowing our souls were free. I have sat with my eyes on God, in silence, listening as something beyond images and words emerged from beneath the waves of my own consciousness, leaving me with a physical sense of creation’s warm expansiveness, golden, eternal and glorious. These moments are about openness and freedom. There is give and take, interaction and a willingness to listen and let my natural response be enough. In these moments, not only am I loved, I feel as though I am love.

Then life happens.

I think to myself, as I begin to feel the pining ache that accompanies the limitations of my senses, “I have not had enough.” I get restless with my life, the same work, the same faces, and all the same things. I feel my body, with its needs, and sometimes wish for something more than mere satisfaction. I desire to be filled full. I want to be occupied and entertained. I want the attention of friends to tickle me with tales I fancy. I want to dress up my life in words and sentiments that do not resemble the gross reality of my mundane perception. I want to feel something other than what I feel, and see something other than what I see. So, I attempt to make my own world.  I try to take myself out of the present by letting my body feel something extraordinary or allowing my mind to make my experience fit as I think it should. I try to manipulate daily events so I can do what I want. I try to escape the need to interact with others in an open way, and focus on my way.  When this happens, it is not long before I find myself feeling disconnected from the people in my life.

What happened to the life I was living before?

During these times it is like I have become so preoccupied by my physical world that I can no longer relate to God. It know that God is present, but I cannot seem to connect as I did before. Rather than opening myself up by listening and responding, allowing myself to be in relationship with God and his people, my life becomes all about what I want to do and say. I sometimes feel like that boy I saw in mass, overzealous in my desire to interact, not recognizing that while there are times when play and distractions are ok, there are also times when I need to sit and be still. I see this boy, and there I am, between my Mother and Father, told to sit, to stop moving around, and to let go of my desires for a moment.

The difficulty for me during these days of lent has been allowing myself time to sit in the temple of my own spirit. While the source of creation and joy exists at all times and is so near to me that the smallest of spiritual movements would allow me to connect with it, I do not know how to respond.  It is then that I need to be told to withdraw to a space created for me by the One who loves me best.  I do not need to sit for an eternity, just long enough. When I finally stop listening to all of my appetites, those sharp edged, erratic voices that get me riled up, I can hear the quiet, persistent voice of God telling me what my heart truly desires. I can think about how I choose to act and interact with the people in my life. I certainly see my sin, but I also see that I am being moved by grace towards a way of life that is more whole and more open. By letting some desires pass, I soon remember that there is a sense of equilibrium that leads towards a growing freedom and willingness for interaction. When all is said and done, after taking my time to reflect and reconnect, I will then rise in a new way. Like the boy when he left mass, with a skip in his feet and his hand in his mom’s, I will rise and walk from my place of worship with my hand in the hand of God.

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