Appearances

The same day I resigned myself to watching, waiting
and being with my longing
You saw me.

I was accompanying my mom to her suite,
and the first resident I met at the seniors’ home caught my eye.
I saw in her face what she’s told me a dozen times since then,
“You’re doing great.”

That day started
with two calls from the care aide.
After conversations with the case manager,
long-term care greeters,
the medical lab,
my sister,
the doctor,
and the pharmacist,
I was at the checkout at Freshco wondering why the machine wouldn’t take my card.
“You already paid,” the cashier said.
Then she surprised me.
She reached her blue-gloved hand over the mangoes and prune juice
and squeezed my hand.
“You’re having a hard day,” she said kindly.

After supper, I went back to my parents’ apartment,
cut up a mango, my mom’s favourite fruit,
and watched her enjoy it.
My dad sighed and said,
“We end how we begin.”

Before I left, he told me about the best day of his life.
“It was Christmas Eve,” he said,
“The snow had fallen, and I was walking back
from the cheese factory to the house.
I turned the corner and saw
the Christmas tree through the window
with all the candles lit.
I was coming home to someone who was on my side
and our children.”
He paused and sat back in his wheelchair,
“I’ll never forget that moment.” 
Mom smiled

and I knew You were telling them
that’s how their ending will be.

The light keeps shining in the dark,
and darkness has never put it out.
–John 1:5 (CEV)

Credits and References:
“Emmaus” by Caravaggio, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Appearances by Esther Hizsa, 2024
“Candle on Christmas Tree” “from pickpik.com. Creative Commons.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
Posted in Aging, compassion, Easter, Poetry, Reflections | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Waiting for Resurrection

I’m not unhappy. 
Life is full and good, 
but the joy of Your resurrection eludes me.

I went to the empty tomb, the garden, the locked room.
I walked to Emmaus and back to Galilee.
You appeared to them
but not to me.

I hear their stories, witness their surprise,
and sense their relief, wonder, and hope.

They didn’t do anything 
to experience resurrection.
It just happened.

Sometimes, we choose a posture of receiving
and let go of making things happen.

Other times
it chooses us
after we’ve tried everything
and there’s nowhere left to be
except with our longing,
nothing else to do
except to watch and wait.

“Julian of Norwich wrote, ‘For I saw Him and I sought Him, and I had Him and I lacked Him.’…The lack of the experience of God is also the gift of God. For the lack of the experience of God deepens the longings for God, and it’s the longings for God that echoes God’s infinite longings for us.”
James Finley, Turning to the Mystics, Julian of Norwich, Session 1.

A Better Resurrection words by Christina Rosetti composed and sung by Steve Bell.

Credits and References:
“The Way to Emmaus” by Robert Zünd, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
“Waiting for Resurrection” by Esther Hizsa, 2024
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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Awake

 Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” -Matthew 28:9

Suddenly you meet us–on our way from the empty tomb, in the garden, on the road to Emmaus, in a locked room, by the sea, and in the dawn of our darkest night. Your gentle voice, your delicate touch tears through the veil of our grief with sweet encounter.

How we hoped beyond reason for your lifeless body to awaken and tell us, you were only sleeping. And now you have awakened and each good and glorious breath swells our hearts with love.

Living Flame of Love

O living flame of love
that tenderly wounds my soul
in its deepest centre! Since
now you are not oppressive,
now consummate! if it be your will:
tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!

O sweet cautery,
O delightful wound!
O gentle hand! O delicate touch
that tastes of eternal life
and pays every debt!
In killing you changed death to life.

O lamps of fire!
in whose splendours
the deep caverns of feeling,
once obscure and blind,
now give forth, so rarely, so exquisitely,
both warmth and light to their Beloved.

How gently and lovingly
you wake in my heart,
where in secret you dwell alone;
and in your sweet breathing,
filled with good and glory,
how tenderly you swell my heart with love.

— St. John of the Cross

Credits and references:
“Transcendence” by Michael D. O’Brien. Used with permission.
“Living Flame of Love” is in The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, translated by Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D. and Otilio Rodgriguez, O.C.D. with introductions by Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D. (ICS Publications, 1979)
Banner “The Glory of Dawn” by Chris Ballard. Used with permission.
Text originally published April 4, 2015© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.

The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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Good and Glory

Jesus-down-from-Cross-lowf

It is finished. Jesus has died. His body is lowered down from the cross and taken to the tomb.

On Easter Saturday, we hold vigil with everyone who is grieving the loss of Christ’s presence. Those bright days of miracles and laughter, of full bellies and awakened hearts are gone. Now, there is only darkness.

Into the darkness we must go.
Gone, gone is the light.

We think that if we had just prayed right, lived right, and believed hard enough, we could have raised Jesus from the dead and felt his presence once more. But this dark night dispels that illusion.

Into the darkness we must go.
Gone, gone is the light.

Before he died, Jesus told his friends he would be back. Remember what John said:

The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.

Remember when Jesus said that if our children asked us for a fish, we wouldn’t give them a snake. Or if they asked for an egg, we wouldn’t give them a scorpion. He knew we would never do that and neither would his Father. God only gives good gifts. So this dark night must be a good gift, a glorious gift.

O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!

On this holy night, let us light a candle in the deep caverns of our feelings and welcome the darkness that is filled with good and glory.

candle shawn carpenter

O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.
“Dark Night of the Soul,” St. John of the Cross

Credits and references:
Jesus down from the cross by Michael D. O’Brien. Used with permission.
Gone is the Light by Gord Johnson on Steve Bell’s album Devotion.
John 1:5, John 14:28, Luke 11:11-13.
The phrases “deep caverns of feeling” and “filled with good and glory” from “Living Flame of Love,” This poem and Dark Night of the Soul  are in The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, translated by Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D. and Otilio Rodgriguez, O.C.D. with introductions by Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D. (ICS Publications, 1979)
Candle by Shawn Carpenter. Used with permission.
Originally published April 3, 2015.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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O Sacred Friend Now Wounded

Crucifixion 2 Michael O Brien

Now you are lifted up and alone, O Sacred Friend. You are every person who has ever been condemned, battered, betrayed, or abandoned. You bear all our suffering and every consequence for the suffering we caused.

“Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Forgive us, you say. Me too, you mean. Even now you see the spark of the kingdom in my intentions without justifying the outcome.

You know full well what I have done, yet when I reach my hand across time and space to touch your face, you do not flinch. I caress your hair, your cheek, your beard as you slip into death. I lay my open palm over your heart.

And all that is you flows into me, into us, into every living thing on earth.

Jesus-down-from-Cross cropped-lowf

What language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this thy dying sorrow,
t
hy pity without end?
— “O Sacred Head Now Wounded”

Credits and references:
Crucifixion 2 by Michael D. O’Brien. Used with permission.
Luke 23:34 (Msg)
Jesus down from Cross (cropped) by Michael D. O’Brien. Used with permission.
“O Sacred Head Now Wounded,” anonymous.
Banner: The Dark Night of the Soul (cropped) by Rene. Used with permission.
Originally published April 2, 2015
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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A Smelly, Sweet Encounter

Perhaps it wasn’t until Jesus and his disciples sat down to eat their evening meal that they noticed the unpleasant aroma of street and feet. I can imagine them all, tired from the day, edgy and irritated with each other, avoiding eye contact with Jesus. Let someone else do it. And someone else did.

Jesus got up, and desiring to show them the depth of his love, took off his outer garment and got a basin of water. I’d always pictured a hush coming over the room at that point and each disciple quietly waiting their turn, but seventeenth-century painter Dirck van Baburen didn’t see it that way.

In his scene, a cacophony erupts that sounds worse than their feet smell. An older disciple accuses a younger one of shirking his duty. A couple of the men lament, “How did we let this happen?” Peter argues with Jesus while Andrew interferes; Jesus argues back.

And who was going to wash their master’s feet? They likely debated about that, too.

Finally, they settled down and returned to their cold dinner. Then Jesus unsettled them again. “I have set an example for you that you should do as I have done for you,” he told them.

And how did they respond? Maybe they used their inside voice, and maybe they didn’t.

“I’m not washing John’s feet; he already thinks he’s so special.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Me either.”

“I’ll do it, and then I’ll wash my own.”

“You can’t wash your own, Doofus. Didn’t you hear what Jesus said? We need to take turns. I’ll draw up a roster.”

Maybe it didn’t happen like that. Maybe after they all got their feet washed and experienced Christ’s sacramental display of love, their hearts were humbled and transformed.

Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe not completely.

Jesus, I am just like them. You washed my feet and that very night I argued with my brother, fell asleep when you asked me not to, and betrayed and deserted you.

You knew that would happen, yet you washed our feet anyway.

Flames by Tassoman

O living flame of love
that tenderly wounds my soul
in its deepest center! Since
now you are not oppressive,
now consummate! if it be your will:
tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!
— “Living Flame of Love” by St. John of the Cross

 

Questions for your journey into Holy Week:

  • How do you feel when you’ve had a sweet encounter with Jesus and then fall back into old patterns of behaviour?
  • What would it be like to believe that love broke through the veil and left a sweetness in your heart?
Credits and references:
“Dirty Feet” by rbairdpccam. Used with permission.
Christ Washing the Apostles’ Feet Dirck van Baburen (circa 1594/1595–1624) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
John 13:1-17
“Flames” by Tassoman. Used with permission.
“Living Flame of Love” is in The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, translated by Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D. and Otilio Rodgriguez, O.C.D. with introductions by Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D. (ICS Publications, 1979)
Originally published April 1, 2015
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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The End of a Story

On each of my dyings,
shed your light and your love.
–Soul of Christ Prayer, paraphrased by David L. Fleming

I’m haunted by the ending of a story.
The boy dies from his compulsion
to save the earth.
The father can’t save his son;
he missed the cue
that prepared the reader
for what was to come.

The stark scene
continues to bother me
long after I finished the book.
I still feel it in the pit of my stomach–
the sadness of it all,
the fear that my compulsions will win,
the anxiety that I will miss a vital clue.

What brings some relief
is that the father held his son
in his fear and pain
until he was released from this world.

Perhaps that is life:
God holds us tenderly as we die again
to one more thing we can’t control.

The grain of wheat must fall to the ground
and die.
We must lose our life
to find it.
“Whoever wants to be my disciple,” Jesus said,
“must take up their cross and follow me.”

I know this.
I’ve spoken about it
and accompanied others through death and resurrection.

But this story
slipped past the tidy knowing
that distanced me from my cross.
It pierced my gut
and let me feel
fear,
grief,
loss,
and my deep need
to be held
in my passing
from one story
to the next.

Will you sing over me?
Will you sing over me?
Sing of the goodness I cannot see
Will you sing over me?
Will you sing over me?
Sing Over Me
by Paul Zach, Kate Bluett, Isaac Wardell, Taylor Leonhardt, and Matt Maher.

 
Credits and References:
“Grain of Wheat” photo by Upsplash from Free Range Stock
“The End of a Story” by Esther Hizsa, 2024
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
Posted in compassion, Creation, Easter, Holy Week, Lent, Poetry, Reflections, Stories | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Free

O Beloved, how numerous are my fears!
They rise up within me whispering
there is no help for you. 

 Yet You, O Beloved,
are a shield about me…
When I cry out to You,
You answer within my heart.
–Psalm 3:1-4 Nan C. Merrill,
Psalms for Praying (adapted)

Numerous are the nameless fears 
that rise up against me. 
They draw back their bows 
and fire sharp thoughts. 

But You, O Beloved, 
are swift and strong– 
a shield about me,
a shelter within,
so I can rise again.

You have saved me
again
and again
and again.

And you will keep saving me
until all my fears fade into love.

I used to be afraid I wasn’t loved.
Then I feared I didn’t love enough
or my love would be rejected.

Then one day,
when my love was cast aside,
I wasn’t afraid.
I was hurt,

then I was sad

and then I was
free
to keep loving.

Rise up, Love! Set me free!
For through your guidance,
my fears will fade into love.

Free from fear, I will know 
the Oneness of Being that 
encompasses everything! 
I shall be free to serve Love
with a glad and open heart.

–Psalm 3:7-8 Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying

Credits and References:
Image by Anne Yungwirth. Used with permission.
Free by Esther Hizsa 2024
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
Posted in compassion, Reflections | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Courage and Curiosity

For my courage is in You, O Love,
You who are the Lover hidden
in every heart.
 
–Psalm 3:6 
Paraphrase by Nan C. Merrill,
Psalms for Praying

People do things 
that annoy and disturb us,
challenge and hurt us.

Sometimes Wisdom says,
“Keep your distance.
Stay out of harm’s way.”

But more often than not,
She whispers, “Stay close,
This one has a gift for you.”

This one?
Really?

It comes so quickly
   the judgment,
   the distancing,
   the othering.

It takes courage
to notice our reaction–
   which we cannot control–
and choose
a different response.

You, O Beloved, give us
the courage 
     to trust
     You are hidden in every heart
and the curiosity
    to see what we can find there.

Rise up, Love! Set me free!
For through your guidance,
my fears will fade into love.
Free from fear, I will know
the Oneness of Being that
encompasses everything!
I shall be free to serve Love
with a glad and open heart.

–Psalm 3:7,8 
Paraphrase by Nan C. Merrill,
Psalms for Praying

Credits and References:
“annoyed” by Michael Neel. Used with permission.
Courage and Curiosity by Esther Hizsa, 2024
“Game of Chicken” by Christopher. Used with permission.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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Wounded Goodness

Ignatius asks us to see how Jesus on the cross identifies with wounded creation and accepts the task of reparation, healing and transforming the damage we have been doing to ourselves and our planet. Ignatius would say Jesus loves us so much that he wants to show that love by identifying with us as a victim of our own sin. Jesus is also trying to make us conscious of the power of divine love to integrate our wounded goodness (and that of everyone else) into himself and then to move from a preoccupation with sin to a focus on grace. …

 

The twentieth-century Jesuit priest and scientist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin would add that Jesus identifies with our wounded goodness because he views us as an important part of his universal body. He invites us to move beyond worrying about our inadequacies and failures in the past because he wants us to focus on what needs to be done in the future to complete God’s project [of reconciliation] and our potential contribution to it (Eph 1:9-10 and 2 Co 5:15).

                                                                       –Louis Savary, The New Spiritual Exercises

What would it be like 
to hear Jesus say, 
“I know what you’re going through”?

He, too, was misunderstood, 
betrayed, abandoned, and beaten. 
He, too, carries the scars
of what was done to him.

He also carries the scars of
what we have done to others,
the earth and ourselves.

What would it be like
to feel him near,
full of forgiveness,
understanding,
and compassion
for our human condition.

What would it be like
to embrace our wounded goodness,
let go of blaming others
for wounding us,
let go of blaming ourselves,
and accept that
being whole,
being free,
being Christlike
doesn’t mean being
sinless.

How might our lives be different 
if we let go of
the disappointment and shame
of failure?

What if we let go
of expecting more from others?

What do we hope
would happen if we were
perfect?

That, finally, we would be loved and accepted,
valued and respected?
Do we think, ah then, 
I will not feel the pain of inadequacy.
I will feel at peace with myself.

Oh, the contortions we go through
to deny
our woundedness
and
our goodness.

Perhaps that’s what we should be giving up for Lent:
the fear of imperfection.

As we let go of it now (or at least try to),
may we open to the wonder
that the divine power of Love
can integrate
our wounded goodness
into grace–
into Christ’s universal body
that is big enough
and strong enough
to repair and renew
creation.

But in this showing, Jesus gave me all that I needed.
“Sin is inevitable,” he said, “yet all will be well
and all will be well and every kind of thing shall be well.”
Julian of Norwich, The Showings of Julian of Norwich,
translated by Mirabai Starr, chapter 27. 

Credits and References:
The Dark Night of the Soul” by Rene. Used with permission.
“Wounded Goodness” by Esther Hizsa, 2024.
“Second last day of 2011 Dawn” by fauxto_digit. Used with permission.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2024.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2024.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
Posted in Holy Week, Lent, Poetry, Poverty of Spirit, Reflections | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment