London letters

So, I decided to write my first church visit paper on Holy Trinity Brompton, the church I attended in London. Which required me to dig out my London archives, so to speak. Which is, to be perfectly honest, extremely painful. I have all of the maps of all of the galleries we went to on a regular basis. When just picking them up and glancing through them, I can recall almost every step, every scramble to write down the information on the placard, every laugh at something ridiculous, every near tear shed over something excruciatingly beautiful. And then, of course, there are little things that bring great delight to my heart over the sheer silliness of it all. For instance, the Winnie-the-Pooh shop I stumbled across in Canterbury, the Mexican restaurant in Angel Carolyn and I braved over break, and the Tea Rooms some of us gals went to while in Canterbury. Then...my very first paper topic, and advice from Londoners in years past. Then there are the MAG assignments. Then there are concert programs. I even still have a train ticket from our trip to Bath! Also, also, also, the LICC's Summary of Vision & Activities. And then a map of the Imperial War Museum, which contained exhibitions regarding Crimes Against Humanity and The Holocaust. Papers I have neglected to look at. My plane ticket from Newark to London, of course. And, this makes me chuckle: actual menu items at the National Gallery cafe: smoked mackerel pate with apple, chicken liver mousse with roasted garlic, and Potted Old Spot pork with prunes. Blech! All these things bring me great joy in remembering, but also great sadness in knowing I'm not there! I felt oh so alive in London. I don't want to not live and not inhabit my time wisely here in Houghton, but I miss it oh so much. Oh so much.
I'm heart sick for the city. I realize this sounds a bit pathetic, sentimental, and perhaps like an idealization of London, but I swear that's not the case. It was not all bliss and beauty. It was flat out hard. And of course, I can't forget being pickpocketed, and my computer dying the Sunday before a paper was due.

From a relatively recent journal entry:

So what, in fact, was it that made me feel so alive in London? Was it the exchange of ideas, or the just right foggy chill? Was it the people I suffered and rejoiced alongside with? Was it the interaction with the professors, wells of brilliance, and You--spouting the wisdom of this world you deem as foolishness, yet which still defines the West today, and subconsciously works its way into us? Was it You? Learning what it is to depend on You much more radically than I think I had before? Seeing Your very active presence in the small percentage of British/international Christians? Seeing You as much bigger than I had conceived before? Being among so many people, so many beautiful reflections of You--both in number and ethnicity and language? Was it the romance of the whole thing? Was it the sheer impossibility and blessing of the whole thing? the sense of connectedness to Western history? the aesthetic architectural beauty of the city?

Dear Lord, grant me the grace of wonder. Surprise me, amaze me, awe me in every crevice of Your universe. Delight me to see how Your Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not His, to the Father through the features of men's faces. Each day enrapture me with Your marvelous things without number. I do not ask to see the reason for it all; I ask only to share the wonder of it all.

Joshua Abraham Heschel

Snow...

What could this snow mean? Perhaps it means nothing more than just that. Winter has come a bit early this year. I feel asleep last night at around 6 o' clock. It was just supposed to be a nap before dinner. But apparently, my body (or mind--or spirit) really needed that rest. I just woke up from this extended sleep, and saw some white resting casually upon the still-orange deciduous leaves, looked out the window and saw the picnic table below lambein covered in a perfect sheet of snow. What could this mean? Could this mean that I've begun or am in the process of being purified? And that in this purification, there will be a dark night of the soul, so to speak? And that afterwards, wholly unexpected, will come untouched beauty? not cold or rigid beauty--not some beauty that I've created? But beauty falling out of the sky--or, in this case, rushing into me slowly, steadily, chilling away any unruly and excess heat or passion--rushing into me like the Spirit, like the wind, like the snowflakes carried upon the wind? Like the patterns of snowflakes we're never quite allowed to see, except under the crucial examination of a microscope.

St. John of the Cross' Dark Night of the Soul

He strips their faculties, affections and feelings, both spiritual and sensual, both outward and inward, leaving the understanding dark, the will dry, the memory empty and the affections in the deepest affliction, bitterness and constraint, taking from the soul the pleasure and experience of spiritual blessings which it had aforetime, in order to make of this privation one of the principles which are requisite in the spirit so that there may be introduced into it and united with it the spiritual form of the spirit, which the union of love.

Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee.
My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.
Psalm 73:25-26

Amen.

Delaying the Inevitable

So, once again, here I sit. In front of my computer. With an outline to finish and miles to go before I sleep. (Sorry, I couldn't resist). Well, maybe not miles--perhaps kilometers? or even meters? And here I sit, thinking of how inadequate I am for the task of being a college student, of being a friend, of loving Christ. It seems like no matter how many times someone tells me I'm wonderful or beautiful or intelligent or worthy of being loved or of being friends with, I still cannot accept it in my innermost being. Silly, and irrational, isn't it? And I know these are lies. But they're terribly easy lies to believe. That's no excuse, I know. They're comfortable lies. Lies that allow me to stay tucked in my shell, never reaching out and making myself vulnerable to my friends, never really loving my neighbor as I love myself. Never really accepting the fact that I am, in some measure, valuable to my friends and family, perhaps even classmates, but most importantly to my Father and Creator.
So, here are some antidotes to these lies:

I was created out of love, to love and be loved by God, to know and be known by God.

I was created in the image of God--somehow I am a unique expression of the character and beauty of God.

No one can steal me out of your hand.

You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same.

Dust of the earth, but Thine we are.

You love Your children freely and generously; You are merciful and graceful toward them.

And God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.

What am I, that I might be called Your child? What am I, that You might die that I might live?

You know my innermost being Lord, even better than I know myself!
What a beautiful God!

At the risk of wearing out my welcome, at the risk of self-discovery, I'll take every moment and every minute that You give me

Medieval Theology...pt. 1

From the Writings of Thomas a Kempis:

If your heart were right, then every created thing would be a mirror of life for you and a book of holy teaching, for there is no creature so small and worthless that it does not show forth the goodness of God.

Christ will come to you offering His consolation, if you prepare a fit dwelling for Him in your heart, whose beauty and glory, wherein He takes delight, are all from within. His visits with the inward man are frequent, His communion sweet and full of consolation, His peace great, and His intimacy wonderful indeed.

Nothing so mars and defiles the heart of man as impure attachment to created things.

How dry and hard you are without Jesus! How foolish and vain if you desire anything but Him!

The man who lives without Jesus is the poorest of the poor...

Let all things be loved for the sake of Jesus, but Jesus for His own sake.

In the cross is salvation, in the cross is life, in the cross is protection from enemies, in the cross is infusion of heavenly sweetness, in the cross is strength of mind, in the cross is joy of spirit, in the cross is highest virtue, in the cross is perfect holiness.

Let it be granted me to find You alone, O Christ, to open to You my whole heart, to enjoy You as my soul desires, to be disturbed by no one, to be moved and troubled by no creature, that You may speak to me and I to You alone, as a lover speaks to his loved one, and friend converses with friend.

You in truth are my Beloved, chosen from thousands, in Whom my soul is happy to dwell all the days of her life. You are in truth my pledge of peace, in Whom is the greatest peace and true rest, without Whom there is toil and sorrow and infinite misery.

You truly are the hidden God.