THOMAS MERTON AND ME

I know it's presumptuous to compare myself to Thomas Merton in anything other than--there was a great man, spiritual teacher, saint, and here I am, a fumbling Christian dithering at the starting line.  But think about it.

Thomas messed around a great deal when he was at Cambridge, England. I messed around too when at Oxford for a year, probably partying more than I should and drinking more sherry than was actually good for me. I didn't father an illegitimate child, but I theoretically could have.  I was a hop, skip and a jump away from Cambridge, even though the time line was off.

I wasn't an orphan, thank God, so I can't claim kinship with Thomas about that.  I never lived on Long Island nor did I attend Columbia.  But I did convert first to Christianity and later to Catholicism.  Here the comparison becomes tighter.

I used to think Christians were delusional.  Yes, they wrote some great music, aka Bach and a bunch of other fellows whom I adored and whose music gave me goose bumps.  But believe in Jesus? That cross thing and the deeply suspect Resurrection?  You must be kidding. I imagine Thomas at a college party, inhaling smoke, blowing it out in a long stream, and thinking the very same thing--delusional.

But then my boyfriend and I listened to Bach's "St. John's Passion" in Oxford the summer of my twentieth year, and we emerged sobbing, shaken, and without any decision on our part--believers.  It can happen that way.  What once seemed a strange dream became real, palpable, and mine.

Much later, invited by friends to attend Mass with them, I found myself totally absorbed in the liturgy: the responses, kneeling, the Homily, and the Eucharist.  I happily rose to follow my friends for communion but stepped back into the pew after one whispered that I couldn't.  "No?"  Really, I fumed, watching people take the Host reverentially either in their hands or their mouths, and my anger fell away as I was consumed with thirst, with hunger, wishing for the Body of Jesus the way an alcoholic might crave a drink, knowing it would put all things right and that I would finally be home.

Then I entered RCIA (after some doubts, again like Thomas: we tend to think his path towards the monastery was a straight one, but he went down many side roads before he got there.), and I came into the church the spring of 2002.

What makes me think I share a bond with Thomas is our mutual passion for faith, for God, and for prayer.  In "The Seven Story Mountain" when he hears the Easter Liturgy at Gethsemani, he wrote something like, "I thought my heart would break."  In other places his passionate words leap off the page.  Faith was his life-blood, the liquid that ran in his veins; what got him up in the morning, what took him through his day, and what slid him into bed at night.

Clearly I have never entered a convent or taken vows.  I married, had two children, and was overjoyed to have a family.  I live in the world, write books, keep in touch with friends, try to help others on the margins, but what sings in my veins--what gets me up in the morning and slides me into bed at night--is my love for God.  It is a humming, almost an electricity, a force.

When someone once asked Jane Fonda why she had converted to Christianity--asked with amused disbelief as if, How could you make such a stupid decision? she answered, "I felt a presence, a reverence humming within me."

Amen.  I'm there too.  Hey, maybe I'm more like Jane Fonda than Thomas Merton? Except for that life-long gorgeousness and shapeliness--nope, I'm sticking with Thomas.  Thomas and me.

MY CHARGING STATION

I recently send a picture of my prie dieu to my priest friend with the caption, "Annie's Docking Station."  But that conjures up a badly-constructed, wrapped in tin foil space ship sputtering into a landing zone instead of how I really see it.

Like many of you, my life is full.  Sometimes too full.  Though at other times there are stretches of inactivity where I am sure I should be signing up for the 30-day Ignatian Exercises, working at a soup kitchen, delivering tents to the homeless nearby, and maybe flying nets over to Africa to protect folks from the scourge of malaria.  Those are grand ambitions.  Maybe I need to start with a small goal, a teeny ambition.

Pray each day.  Doesn't matter when or where.  Just do it.  The advantage of having a prie dieu--and for those of you who haven't come across that it is just a fancy French phrase for a kneeler used in prayer, though the translation would be "pray to God."  I ordered it about a year and a half ago when I thought my prayer life needed some pumping up, some spiritual chili pepper as it were.

Here's what actually happens.  I run downstairs and make tea with two bags of Earl Grey because one is too wussy; comment sarcastically to husband about the weakness of said tea bags, wondering if tea corporation is putting fewer leaves into bags.  Pat wiggly Jack Russell terrier.  Let dog out onto winter deck so she can punish squirrels by barking hysterically at them.  Let dog in and reward her for high-pitched barking with a small bone.  Trudge back upstairs.  Sit in chair and decided to practice Centering Prayer.  I admire Thomas Keating and wish I could emulate his serenity.  Start prayer app on iPhone with the short span of ten minutes between starting gong and ending gong.  Practice has shown me 15 minutes leaves me in a breathless, panicky lather.  Glance at watch repeatedly while praying.  Lift eyes to ceiling in hopes in inspiration.  Say to God in a stagey whisper, "You SEE how hard I am trying to prepare my soul for you?"  Honey?

Give up, push ending chime so I can pretend I have actually practiced this worthy prayer for ten minutes when it has only been five.  Then rise and head for the prie dieu in the corner.  Above is my mom's etching of Pope John 23rd which I love, including his fabulous Roman nose.  To the right is a replica of the San Damiano Cross we got in Assisi.  I cherish this, even though Jesus doesn't seem to be suffering greatly but has the polite look of someone waiting for a meal in a slow restaurant.  Right over my kneeler is an icon of Mary holding the Christ child in a tender embrace.  I pray to her for humility and help in parenting.

With a sigh I let myself down on the padded wood, place my hands together, and close my eyes, letting the stream of my anxieties and worries flow out.

I am afraid of this coming storm, God, worried about losing power and shoveling us out.  Please send someone to help us.  God, I am anxious about my loved ones driving during the storm, especially my son in L.I.  Please protect them all and maybe sending St. Michael would be a good idea, though you will know what to do without my telling you. Dear God, help me to be more patient, quiet and less judgmental during church, please....

Like a wind which blows away to another part of the forest, all of my words scatter and I am left in the presence of God--here with me as I kneel, covering me with his strength, peace, and his love.  This is why I come here, this is why I kneel at the "pray to God" place, where I recharge my batteries for the day ahead.  Even if it's only a short conversation, I always leave refreshed and strengthened because God meets my messy, jumpy self right where I am.