Deer Crossing

Diane and I came back from our trip to PEI yesterday after traveling almost 3000 km. For us, this excursion was more than the usual yearly getaway to recharge our batteries. In a way, it was an attempt to break free from a year and a half of confinement and of the feeling of constantly being on the defensive from the potential attacks of an invisible but deadly foe.

Two events stand out for me in those 10 days on the road. We visited the Centre Belle-Alliance in Summerside, a center with a school, a daycare, halls for cultural events, a library, and the offices of various francophone organizations. Diane and I met a few dozen of the people who work there and some of the children at the daycare center. None of them wore masks. I was, at first, taken aback by this, but slowly realized that this was not carelessness on their part. There are no active cases of Covid-19 in PEI. It was refreshing to see the noses and smiling mouths of so many people! I left that center with a renewed sense of hope because I encountered there a vital francophone community managing not only to survive in an overwhelmingly anglophone environment but to thrive and live fully as francophones. There was hope also in seeing a community that had been able to shed not only face masks, but also the fear of being and living close to one another. 

The second event occurred on our journey back to Ottawa. On the way to PEI, we saw many road signs alerting us to possible intrusions of deer and moose on highways. I jokingly said to Diane that these were false advertising because we were promised sightings that never materialized.  However, on the stretch of the TransCanada Highway between Quebec City and Trois-rivières, we finally saw a young deer crossing the road a hundred meters ahead of us. I was struck by the grace and beauty of this wild animal and silently reflected that the road signs may not be “false advertising”, but certainly were a very poor rendering of the majesty of these exquisite creatures.

Our trip to PEI was a pilgrimage of healing. It has allowed us to shed some of the fear that has more or less unconsciously draped us for so many months and to see reality again unveiled and from a perspective that cannot be rendered by road signs or through a computer or TV screen. 

Hansel and Gretel

I do believe God talks to me, but no, I do not hear audible voices. Becoming conscious that he is addressing a “word” to me is more akin to feeling that my attention is being drawn to several disparate things that converge to illuminate and reveal something that I could not see until then. God seems to weave together elements from my memory, my experience, my knowledge, my feelings to present a tapestry that I recognize as expressing his thought, as his “voice” in my life.

When Jesus spoke to his disciples, he did the same thing. He used concrete everyday realities, “Look at the birds. The lilies, the mustard tree.” He used stories – parables - about ordinary people: sons and fathers, rich men and poor men, unjust judges, hard-hearted unforgiving men, poor widows. He used scriptures, what we now call the Old Testament. He used people’s experience of life: crumbling towers killing many, threatening storms on lakes, coins stamped with the face of Caesar.

The other day, when I said that God answered my question, “Lord, how were you present and acting in all this aggravation today?” that is exactly what I meant. He “spoke” to me using the very fabric of my life.

One memory that surfaced while I was “waiting” for God to answer my question, was that of a Grimm’s fairytale: Hansel and Gretel. I had to look it up to recall all the details of the story, but what I initially remembered was that Hansel had used white pebbles to retrace his way home after being left to die in the forest with his sister Gretel (that this was ever considered a children’s bedtime story is amazing!) In addition to the white pebbles, God also drew my attention to scripture passages, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.” He also gave me a sense of all the times he had shown me mercy and forgiven me my wrongdoings.

Just as the pebbles were, for Hansel and Gretel, the means of finding their way back home, the aggravations in my life, are the pebbles that remind me to be “merciful as my heavenly Father is merciful” - to ground my responses to the hurtful actions of others in the mercy that God constantly shows me so that I can, in turn, forgive and pray for them and ask God to bless them. I cannot truly forgive others unless I return "home", to the very source of forgiveness: God's merciful love for me.

Sowing Blessings

Yesterday was spent dealing with one aggravation after another. I started the day with a stop at our automotive service provider to have our car mechanically inspected before our projected trip to the Maritimes next weekend. I arrived there at 8:30 AM. After a wait of about half an hour, the service agent came to me with a rather long list of repairs that were needed and a quote on the hefty cost they entailed. He said that the repairs would take two hours.

I went for a long walk and came back forty minutes later and settled down to read an eBook while I waited. At 12:00, the service agent told me that the repairs would take an additional hour. I left on foot to look for a restaurant to buy lunch.

There was a KFC not too far away. I entered and ordered. I was the only customer in the restaurant. I patiently waited for my meal as new customers entered and ordered. When, fifteen minutes later, my meal had still not arrived, I asked why. The young cashier, who was obviously new, could not find my bill and realized that my meal had never been ordered. Another wait until it finally got done.

After eating I went back to the garage to resume my patient vigil. One o’clock came and passed. At 1:30 I asked the service agent to check when the car would finally be ready. An additional twenty minutes was the response. By then my patience was wearing very thin, but still, I waited… until 2:30. When I got the bill, I saw that it was several hundred dollars above the initial quote. I asked to see the manager who apologized for my having to wait so long and he checked into the discrepancy on the bill. The service agent contradicted me and told him that his initial quote was a few dollars above the amount on the final bill. The manager assumed I was simply trying to get a discount and dismissively “managed” me, sending me on my way with his calling card attached to my bill, as if that made up for the poor service, I had received.

When I got home, Diane told me that our credit card statement contained amounts larger than the ones that we expected for a service contracted a few weeks earlier. I called the company to find out that the prices quoted at the time of the transaction were in US funds. The agent I had spoken to then had neglected to tell me that. I was transferred to the accounting department and waited, listening to elevator music for another ten minutes, until someone in talked to me and I could settle the matter.

When I finally managed to calm down, I did what I often try to do when people hurt me or are a source of frustration. I prayed for the service agent, the mechanic and the manager. I prayed for the young lady who did not know what she was doing at the KFC and the rest of the staff there. I prayed for the American gentleman who thought that all currencies were in US Funds.

In the last few days, my thoughts and my prayer have centered on one thing: God is present and acting in all situations, whether these be happy or sad, easy or difficult, gratifying or painful. When I sat down to pray last night, I could not help but ask, “Lord, how were you present and acting in all this aggravation today?” The answer I got was, “You prayed for them, didn’t you? All those aggravations allowed me to sow blessings on a lot of people.”

Grandpapa is Slipping

I think I am slipping in my skills and role as a “grandpapa.” Last Saturday, I went for a ride, a walk, and a “little adventure” with my grandson Victor. We walked along the Outaouais River and got to see dogs having fun in the water, a chipmunk walking without fear right in front of us, wildflowers that Victor said he had never seen before, butterflies flying by. It was a very pleasant time together. On the way back to his house, I suggested we stop to get treats: Drumsticks filled with chocolate ice cream in a wafer cone and topped with peanuts. Victor had no objection whatsoever to this suggestion. However, when I suggested that we should tell the rest of the family that we found the Drumsticks in a dessert garden filled with rows upon rows of Drumsticks, chocolate cakes, puffy pastries, and an assortment of other goodies he objected: “No, grandpapa, we can’t say that. That’s not the truth!” When we got back to his place, he told his parents, “We bought them with grandpapa’s money.” After twenty-eight years as a grandpapa, I fear I am losing my ability to inspire wild imagination in my grandchildren. Woe to me!

Loud and Angry Voices

I know I am treading on dangerous ground by writing about this, but I feel the need to shed light on the subject, if not for others, at least for myself.

I was watching a news report this week about the release of Bill Cosby from prison. I recall my reaction when he was accused and condemned of rape a few years ago. I was convinced then that the charges were founded. As I was listening to this week’s news report, it dawned on me that my initial reaction could have been completely skewed by media coverage at the time that unanimously implied that he was in fact guilty. I could not help but wonder where else my perception of the truth may be skewed because I do not have a broad enough picture of situations or because I simply go along with what “they” are saying – the media, public opinion, the loud and angry voices around me.   

There are many loud and angry voices today taking advantage of the public’s hunger for strong emotions. The media are only too eager to amplify these voices and to mute the more tempered and nuanced ones. I think I need to tune in to the Holy Spirit a bit more frequently to discern the truth underlying all those voices that are competing for my attention.  

Postscript:

Some people were offended by what I wrote above. I apologise for that. My intention was not, as one comment suggested, to defend Bill Cosby nor to excuse a rapist. I reread myself in the eyes of the persons who commented on my post and, I must admit, it could certainly be interpreted that way. I am guilty of hastily posting something that was poorly written, but not of believing that atrocious acts are in any way justifiable.

My focus was never on Mr Cosby. What struck me last week while listening to reports of his release was that I had passed judgement on him along with a plethora of news commentators well before his trial was over. My reaction to the news report last week had nothing to do with Cosby’s sin, it had to do with mine. Who am I to judge anyone, let alone when that judgement is based on second-hand information? I was seized with the thought that I so readily go along with prevailing opinions, outlooks, perceptions and with the realization that these lead me to pass judgement on others. I will let God pass judgement on Mr Cosby and will ask him to have mercy on me. Anything else does not belong to me.

Donner de son indigence

Ronald Rolheiser, dans son livre Domestic Monastery, relate une conversation entre l’auteur Nikos Kazantzakis et un moine âgé, le père Makarios. Kazantzakis demande au moine s’il combat toujours le démon. Celui-ci répond, « Non, parce que lui et le démon sont tous deux devenu trop vieux et que le démon est maintenant trop faible pour se battre. » Le vieillard ajoute, « Mon combat est maintenant avec Dieu. » Kazantzakis, étonné, s’exclame, « Avec Dieu! Et vous espérez gagner? » Et le moine réplique, « J’espère perdre, mon enfant. Mes os m’accompagnent toujours et ils continuent à résister. »

Pendant une homélie, un prêtre de la paroisse à laquelle j’appartenais nous a dit, « Le péché colle à ma peau. » C’était une autre façon de dire la même chose qu’exprimait le vieux moine Makarios. Saint Paul parlait de la même réalité quand il écrivait, « Je ne fais pas le bien que je voudrais, mais je commets le mal que je ne voudrais pas. » (Romains 7, 19) C’est aussi ce que je ressens parfois.

La tentation qui me guette alors est de me dire, « Est-ce que j’aime vraiment Dieu si je suis ainsi? » Ce n’est pourtant pas la bonne question à poser. Il n’y a pas d’issue à cette question. En la posant, je risque de rester enfermer en moi-même – rester dans mon enfer-mement. La bonne question est, « Est-ce que la miséricorde de Dieu est assez grande pour envelopper même mon péché ? »

La « Bonne Nouvelle » c’est que je suis invité à donner non pas uniquement ce que j’ai mais tout ce que je n’ai pas aussi et cela inclus mon péché et toutes mes faiblesses. "Donner de mon indigence » (Marc 12,44) à Dieu c'est lui permette de l’envelopper de sa miséricorde.

Ma pauvreté, mon impuissance et mon indigence radicale ne sont pas un mur qui se dressent entre moi et Dieu. Elles sont la porte d’accès au Royaume du Père. J’arrive devant Dieu les mains vides.  Cette indigence me permet de tout recevoir de Lui. Alors seulement puis-je tout Lui donner en retour. 

Perdu et retrouvé

L’autre matin, Diane avait échappé quelque chose par terre et je la voyais pencher pour essayer de trouver l’objet perdu. Je me suis donc mis à sa recherche avec elle. Aussitôt m’est venu en tête, comme cela m’arrive presque toujours quand je cherche un objet qui s’obstine à se cacher, de prier saint Antoine de Padoue de nous aider. Quelques secondes plus tard, j’ai vu l’objet fugitif et j’ai pu le récupérer.

Je sais que cela sent un peu la superstition, de celles que nos ancêtres avaient : celle, par exemple, qui consistait à croire que pour avoir un mariage sans pluie il fallait mettre un chapelet sur la corde à linge ou à cette autre qui prétendait qu’enterrer une statue de saint Joseph, la tête en envers dans la cour arrière d’une maison, assurerait qu’on puisse la vendre rapidement. Pourtant, je persiste à croire qu’il y a plus que de la simple crédulité derrière ma confiance en saint Antoine.

Au cours des années, il s’est développer un genre d’amitié entre lui et moi. Je sens que sa sollicitude pour mes petites détresses quand je ne trouve pas ce que je cherche est celle d’un ami, de quelqu’un qui s’intéresse à moi et qui veut m’aider. Je sens en même temps que c’est la sollicitude de Dieu qui transparaît dans celle de saint Antoine. Dieu me donne ce saint comme ami pour me rappeler souvent que son attention pour moi s’étend aussi bien à mes petites détresses qu’à mes grandes.

Chose étonnante, j’oublie souvent le nom de ce bon ami. Quand, par exemple, j’ai pensé le prier pour récupérer l’objet disparu de Diane, je n’ai pas pu m’en souvenir. Toutefois, comme c’est souvent le cas, j’ai senti qu’il m’indiquait l’endroit exact où porter mon regard, là où se cachait l’objet.  En riant, j’ai dit à Diane, « J’ai prié ‘ce saint’ qui aide à trouver les objets perdus. J’ai dû l’insulter bien noir parce que je ne me souvenais pas de son nom. » Je savais pourtant d’instinct qu’il n’était pas du tout offensé par ma mémoire défaillante. Au contraire, je suis convaincu qu’il aime être oublié et s’effacer pour n’être que la transparence de la bonté de Dieu.

Comme je n’arrivais toujours pas à me souvenir de son nom, j’ai fait une recherche sur Internet avec les mots suivants : « le saint qui aide à trouver des objets perdus. » Le premier article en tête de liste sur le moteur de recherche venait du site Web d’Aleteia, une ressource fiable et sérieuse. Le titre de l’article était : Pourquoi prier saint Antoine lorsqu’on perd un objet? Une phrase dans cet article m’a particulièrement rejoint : « Toutes les personnes qui se sentent perdues, qui prient et demandent dans le silence la grâce de se retrouver elles-mêmes, font également confiance au saint de Padoue. » Saint Antoine est donc le saint qui aide à retrouver non seulement des objets perdus, mais aide aussi aux personnes qui se sentent perdues à se retrouver.

Saint Antoine est un saint qui ne désire qu’être la transparence de la sollicitude, de la bonté et de la tendresse de Dieu et qui aide les personnes qui se sentent perdues à retrouver leur chemin et à se retrouver. Peu étonnant que ce saint me soit si sympathique et que je suis reconnaissant d’être son ami!  

La Samaritaine - Mannick

Why did the turkey cross the street?

Another pleasant walk in the National Cemetery this afternoon. One of the things that often intrigue me when I wander through the many pathways between the burial plots is that I do not recall ever seeing birds there even though it is full of trees of every variety. Today, though, two exceptionally large wild turkeys crossed the road just in front of me. What the cemetery lacks in quantity of avian creatures, it more than makes in the size of the ones who do inhabit its grounds. I don’t know why they were crossing the street though. "To get to the other side” would be a reasonable enough assumption.

Le regard de Dieu

En novembre dernier, j’écrivais ceci dans mon « journal » :

« Le point de contact entre moi et Dieu n'est pas au terme d’un cheminement unique et idéal sans lequel le contact serait raté. Je n’ai pas à me déplacer vers un point précis pour que Dieu puisse me rencontrer. Dieu vient à ma rencontre là où je suis. Son cœur prend tous les détours et les reculs avec moi pour ne pas me perdre de vue. La route est dans mon cœur, c’est l’Amour même de Dieu qui place des pavés et jette des ponts devant mes pas pour que je puisse me rendre à Lui. »

Et une semaine plus tard j’ajoutais cette phrase :

« Pour connaitre ou reconnaître le visage de Jésus, il faut d'abord le tracer au fond de son coeur. »

J’ai relu cela ce matin et je me demandais comment l’on pouvait tracer le visage de Jésus au fond de son cœur. C’est dans un sourire d’enfant que j’ai trouvé la réponse.

La semaine dernière, je prenais une marche matinale sur le sentier qui longe la Rivière Rideau. Le beau ciel bleu, la température clémente et une petite brise m’allégeaient le pas. Une maman s’était arrêtée au bord de la piste pour nourrir à la cuiller sa petite fille qui était assise dans une poussette. La petite était charmante et je la regardais avec joie en m’approchant d’elle. Comme je m’apprêtais à lui dire, « Tu es une belle petite! » elle a tourné son visage vers moi et m’a offert le plus beau des sourires. Elle avait reconnu dans mes yeux la joie que j’avais à la contempler et ce sourire radieux était sa façon d’accueillir mon regard.

Peu importe combien sinueux ont été les sentiers que j’ai empruntés, peu importe où ils m’ont conduit, Dieu s’approche de moi, vient à ma rencontre et me regarde avec tendresse et joie en disant, « Tu as du prix à mes yeux et je t’aime. En toi j’ai mis toute ma joie. » L’enfant perdu et retrouvé que je suis accueille ce regard et souri. A chaque fois que ces rencontres se produisent et que j’accueille le regard de Dieu sur moi, un nouveau trait du visage de Jésus est tracé au plus profond de mon cœur.

Mercy

“While Augustine was working on his book On the Trinity, he was walking by the seaside one day, meditating on the difficult problem of how God could be three Persons at once. He came upon a little child. The child had dug a little hole in the sand, and with a small spoon or seashell was scooping water from the sea into the small hole. Augustine watched him for a while and finally asked the child what he was doing. The child answered that he would scoop all the water from the sea and pour it into the little hole in the sand. ‘What?’ Augustine said. ‘That is impossible. Obviously, the sea is too large and the hole too small.’ ‘Indeed,’ said the child, ‘but I will sooner draw all the water from the sea and empty it into this hole than you will succeed in penetrating the mystery of the Holy Trinity with your limited understanding.’ Augustine turned away in amazement and when he looked back the child had disappeared.” - The child by the seaside

I read this legend about Saint Augustine several years ago. I had not thought about it since then, but it was obviously tucked away in one of those small drawers in my brain where I keep those tidbits of information because I remembered it while meditating about something else: God’s mercy.

One of the things that strikes me the most when I listen to people speaking, even those I know to be devout Catholics, is how little faith they have in God’s mercy. I must admit that, when I am honest with myself, that is also true of me. I say that I believe that God is merciful, but when I see how weak, how prone to wander off the straight path and how easily I am attracted by worthless shiny things, I am quick to pass judgment on myself and can be quite harsh in doing so.

I think a “legend” about the mercy of God would be helpful. It could go something like this:

An angel appeared to me last night. In one hand, she held a balance, one of those old balances with two cups. In the other hand she had something small that looked like a star that is barely visible in the night sky. The angel said, “This is the smallest possible portion of God’s mercy.” She then placed it in one of the cups of the balance and the cup sank quickly to the ground and rested there. The angel then said, “Look around you.” As I did this, I saw a field covered in stones of various sizes and it seemed to go on endlessly in all directions. “These stones’ said the angel, “are your sins and those of all the people of the world since the beginning of time and until the end of time.” She then placed one of the stones in the second cup of the balance and nothing happened. The cup filled with God’s mercy remained firmly grounded where it lay. Then the angel said, “All of the stones of this field could never outweigh even the smallest portion of God’s loving mercy.”

Quandary

Yesterday, I received an email from the long-term care institution where my brother lives. It pertained to changes in the protocol that visitors must follow to prevent the risk of COVID transmission. It was good to see that these rules are being relaxed and will allow residents to have a more natural interaction with more visitors.

The first item on the list of changes reads as follows:

“Fully vaccinated essential visitors (whose second vaccine was more than 14 days ago) no longer need to wear face shields, may hug their loved one, may hold their loved one's hand.”

We have all felt “hugged deprived” during this pandemic and I cannot but feel joy at the thought that these residents will finally be able to receive the healing goodness of a bear hug and of a gentle touch of the hand.

I think it will take quite a bit of time though for us to feel completely comfortable with something that was so natural and taken for granted before the pandemic. Indeed, even the email I received contained an indication of that. One of the listed changes stated:

“Outdoor visitors do not require a rapid test but must wear a face mask and maintain physical distance. “

I could not help but wonder how one gives a hug to someone or holds their hands while maintaining physical distancing. Rita, my sister-in-law, used the word “quandary” to describe the obvious contradiction here. What I find surprising is that those who drafted this set of changes to the rules did not see the contradiction. I suspect this may be because this quandary is not just logical but will be part of our psychological makeup for a long while even when all restrictions have been lifted.