ragamuffin diva

Friday, first Week of Advent '09

2009-12-04T04:44:00.004-05:00

"I am waiting for my eyes to open to behold your perfect work for me. Come, Lord Jesus."

Here I am again, in the wee small hours of the morning, keeping vigil. My head is so full of dreams. The house of hospitality seems very near, and yet, I have no idea how it will happen.

I just read the Office of Reading, and Mass readings on universalis.com. Universalis is a wonderful way to pray the hours, if you're at all attracted to fixed hour prayer. I accidentally read ahead a bit to the mid-morning reading, if you could call the graces you stumble into accidents. It was Jeremiah 29:11-13:

"I know the plans I have in mind for you – it is the Lord who speaks – plans for peace, not disaster, reserving a future full of hope for you. When you seek me you shall find me, when you seek me with all your heart."

How could I not take comfort in those ancient words? Jeremiah was the weeping prophet. We depressives love him. But this word from God is so full of hope. It makes me want to run as fast as I can to God. And I'm so grateful that I don't have to run far, because he's inside this tiny little soul of mine, by his own choice. Who can comprehend it?

After I found that assurance, I wanted to see what the gospel reading was for Mass today. Lo and behold it was the story of the two blind men who found Jesus, and their healing, together in Matthew 9:27-31.

"As Jesus went on his way two blind men followed him shouting, ‘Take pity on us, Son of David.’ And when Jesus reached the house the blind men came up with him and he said to them, ‘Do you believe I can do this?’ They said, ‘Sir, we do.’ Then he touched their eyes saying, ‘Your faith deserves it, so let this be done for you.’ And their sight returned. Then Jesus sternly warned them, ‘Take care that no one learns about this.’ But when they had gone, they talked about him all over the countryside."

It's a wonderful story, isn't it? And this morning I can't help but see Lisa and I in it. We found each other at a time in both of our lives when a dark cloud of chronic depression dimmed our existence. I came to her, like this moment, deep into the night. But it was almost the new day, in more ways than one.

I've always wondered how these two blind men in the gospel of Matthew found each other. How they got by. How they helped one another when both of them were so needy. But I guess they just held on to one another and did what they had to do, much like Lisa and I. At dinner tonight, she said to her husband, "Claudia and I were talking..." And Will goes, "Uh oh. Words that strike fear in the hearts of men!"

Even if those men are only Will and Ken, it's so true. Anyway, she proceed to surprise me by saying, "You tell them, Claudia." And I had to be the one that was going to get us in trouble. But that'll probably be my job for a long time, because Lisa doesn't like to get in trouble. I may as well get used to it. I told Will and Ken about needing a house right away. And told them what the Lord said: he's sending us people. And Lisa worked my amen corner. Our plans were articulated as vaguely as I just told them to you, yet full of hope, like those blind guys, stumbling in the dark, but somehow know every stumbling step, they were making their way to Jesus.

On this Friday morning, when I should be sleeping, or just about to awaken, I'm here, feeling a little blind, but so so close to the dawning of my very own, personal dream of a day, and the sweet and tiny infant Jesus, with his little heart so bright and full of love, is saying to me, "Do you believe I can do this?" And I'm holding him as close as Mary is pictured above, saying, "Oh yes, blessed, lovely, immeasurable goodness, I do."

It's like being pregnant, lovies, but having washboard abs. You may not be able to see it, but something is happening inside of me just the same. I'm wondering if Jesus wants me to tell no one, like he told the blind men. Just sit with this miracle that will soon be born, letting it develop in quiet and darkness of my soul's chrysalis.

Oh, but I can't help myself! I've been telling everyone who'll listen. Then again, even if I were silent about it, you'd probably know something was up by my glow.

What a mystery Advent is, a time when we wait, but have him in our embrace, all at once.

May I ever point you to Jesus, just as Mary did (see the amazing icon above).

mair-francis

Thursday, first week of Advent '09

2009-12-03T09:18:00.004-05:00

"I am waiting to simply adore him. Come, Christ Child. I have a few gifts to give you."

So, the wee small hours of Wednesday morning had me ruminating on both my past, and my future. But I should tell you a little about what preceded those thoughts. On Tuesdays, we share a meal in community. On Thursdays and Sundays, too, but we've chosen Tuesdays to talk afterward, about where we are and how we can support one another. We do everything from discussing practical financial matters, to dreaming and brainstorming together. It's a lovely uplifting time. Will happened to mention that once The Living Room is positioned to receive grant money, it was unlikely we'd receive any for a two years.

It's been a long time since I've written grants or done any non-profit work, and most of the programs I wrote for were already well established. I simply hadn't considered that, and when I got home that night, the timing concerned me.

I heard in my spirit, as clearly as I could have heard a thing with my physical hearing, "You don't have two years. I'm going to start sending you people." And I thought, "Oh." I didn't make any spectacular plans. Just "oh." As in, "That's interesting. God is going to start sending people."

I wish he'd have said. "I'm going to send people, so go to sleep!" Because Wednesday morning I was awakened with an urgent call. Jesus was coming in one of his distressing disguises: a broke, very sick, pregnant woman with no where to go, burdened with some other very serious concerns.

If Tuesday and the night watch Wednesday morning was a wilderness, the bright light of daytime that morning found Lisa and I welcoming this poor and needy "least of these" in very active service. God kept his word, and sent us someone, and I believe he's going to send more and very soon.

Our guest was a gift to us. While we met her most immediate needs, she showed us how necessary a ministry of presence is in this city NOW. We've decided to open a house of hospitality immediately. I'm not speaking of the mission of The Living Room. That's something different, and we're going to do that, too. I mean a real house of hospitality, where we can always welcome Jesus. This is utterly foolish and completely impossible for us to do right now. That means God is going to have to do it. He's going to have to secure us a house, and many, many friends to support us, and I don't have time, as he's demonstrated, to wait for a grant, though we're absolutely going to put everything in place so that we can get that kind of funding.

There are so many lessons for me that yesterday taught, and I'm still meditating on what God is saying and doing. But I do know I feel like one of the Magi today, and the few gifts that God has endowed me with I'm ready to give them to him for use serving the marginalized--those he loves so very much. I'm grateful that in this blessed season as we watch and wait in wonder for his arrival, that Jesus assured me he's already here, setting things right.

Sweet baby, Jesus. So tender, so gentle, so beautiful. Today, I'm just gazing in the manger adoring you.

mair-francis

Wednesday, first week of Advent

2009-12-02T04:20:00.004-05:00

"I am waiting for the good shepherd to guide me. Come Lord Jesus. Do not delay."

What a weird time I'm having. In the last few days, my past has collided with my future, and I'm in the middle of the two.

A person, no, the person who abused me horribly, and I do mean abused, has asked me to do some work for him. Writing work! It was a surreal conversation that I won't even begin to get into. And I know this sounds insane, but I wondered, what would Jesus do? He said we have to love our enemies. I just wished he'd have detailed how, in outline form, with bullets. No, not that kind of bullets. The enumerating kind. Would Jesus the carpenter make a dining room table for Judas??? Who but he can say?

Don't worry. I'm not going to work for him, but I found it so odd that I was asked. I'm one of those people who look for hidden learning opportunities in the weirdness of life. That "what would Jesus do question" still lingers in my mind. Seriously, in the most practical terms, how do you love your enemy, especially when he shows up out of nowhere and begs your help? Yeah, I know. Some of you may be thinking, "Jesus said love him, not work for him, clown girl." But is it really that simple? I can see more than a few of you saying, "Yes, Mair. It is." I guess what I'm getting at is what, exactly, am I supposed to do with this situation? And I do mean exactly. This is worse than that time crazy Harold saw me on Third Street on my way to morning prayer and asked me to hug him. And I did it! I was having one of my saint Francis days! I thought he was, like, my leper! It could have been a conversion experience! Don't laugh. I'm serious. And I still don't know why crazy Harold randomly asked me to hug him. I'd never seen him, and he'd never seen me. What would Jesus have done? I can't help it, but I kinda think he'd have hugged the guy. But no fiery angelic visitors showed up and said, "Yes, you passed your test, Mair; that's what you were supposed to do." And I didn't particularly feel a conversion experience like St. Francis did. I felt weird. In retrospect, I kinda think he thought I was a hooker. I did have on some really funky boots that morning. He also asked, "Do you love me?" I replied, firmly. "Harold, let me go." And he did. He was a very simple man. But should I have said, "Yes. And God loves you, and has a wonderful plan for your life?" I don't know.

"God expects us to use wisdom," we who rarely get our hands dirty say, but in the trenches, isn't all God's work in some way foolishness?

But I digress...

Tonight I got my heart rent in two watching a movie about sex trafficking. Many of you know I'm in Lexington to begin a house of hospitality to victims of this particular brand of trafficking, and there I was, confronted with images of men who hurt women in some of the ways my abuser hurt me. I'll be honest, I felt a little scared for the first time. I found myself counting up the cost of such a ministry. It didn't take long for me to tell the Lord I was willing to do whatever he asked, even if it might put me in harms way a bit. Not many people want to work with sex workers. That's Jesus in a very distressing disguise. But I don't mind if he sends me. I wouldn't be here if I did. I've been in danger for less than God's will. But, I just want to hear him. You know? I need his voice whispering to me every little step of the way. I can't do this, at all, without his constant direction.

I'm looking toward Bethlehem in the wee small hours of this morning, at an empty manger. I'm thinking of the unborn ministry burning in my breast, and of the infant Jesus who will grow up to be my good shepherd. I'm thinking of how he will help me make sense of so much craziness. I'm just a silly sheep; I don't know what to do. And I'm waiting in wonder, with soooo many questions, between the two.

"My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me." John 10:27

Come, Lord Jesus.

mair

Okay, how cute is that black shepherd??? I couldn't resist. That's me in his arms!

Tuesday. Second Day of Advent '09

2009-12-01T09:17:00.005-05:00

"I am waiting to feel your urgent longing to be with me, once again. Come quickly, Jesus. I want to offer you hospitality."

Okay, so this whole prayer as a matter of love thing is taking some interesting turns. I'm trying to go very easy on myself, but the truth is, I have a bad case of "do-it-right-itis." Mind you, I rarely do anything exactly as it should be done, which means I'm deeply afflicted by this malady. I tend to want to abandon anything that doesn't feel comfortable if it keeps feeling uncomfortable and makes me feel ignorant--no, just plain stupid. Come to think of it, should prayer, whatever method I settle on, consistently feel uncomfortable or make me feel dumb? I don't think so. You can see my dilemma.

Oh, beloveds. You ought to see me with a few of the prayer books I own. There I am, fumbling about with antiphons and such: "Do I say just one. Or all three?" Blah, blah, blah. To simplify matters I got a copy of Magnificat. It's the Daily Office in a magazine format. It's the most straightforward resource that I've found, but when I tried to pray with it for the morning office today, I found myself distracted in a number of ways, such as, comparing it to other prayer books: "Was I supposed to pray the invitatory? It's not here." Then I started flipping pages for the invitatory. "Is this first Psalm the invitatory?" I had no idea. And I hated that this need to do things correctly interrupted what could have been a real love fest. I want this Advent experience to teach me something about prayer. I don't know what, but I'm straining to hear.

Anyway, last night before my compline prayers I pulled out a few yummies: a book called The Music of Silence by Brother David Steindl-Rast and Sharon Lebell, along with Seven Sacred Pauses, by Macrina Wiederkehr. I also keep close at hand the deeelish Prayer is a Hunger by Edward Farrell. All these lovely, simple, yet profound titles are pointing me to new levels of intimacy with God. They're giving me the courage to shoo the legalist in me away, so that I may truly adore the Christ Child in prayer in this fine season of wonder.

So, I'm reading through Fr. Edward's book--recommended by Brennan Manning, the year I met him, might I add--and I get to this chapter about being a Eucharist. Don't even get me started on how mind blowing that idea is. We'll save that for another discussion, after I've pondered the mystery of it in my heart for awhile. In the same chapter Fr. Edward recounts the story of Zaccheus, so "anxious to see what kind of man Jesus was" that he ran ahead of the crowd, and climbed a sycamore tree to catch a glimpse of him. Talk about your uncomfortable prayer postures! The Lord isn't asking me to climb any trees to be with him yet. Thank goodness!

There were throngs of people all around, but Jesus, as he passed through the crowd, stopped right in front of you-know-who's sycamore tree. Calling him by name, Jesus said, "Zaccheus, come down. Hurry, because I must stay at your house today."

When I read Jesus' words, it was if he stopped right in front of me with my bumbling, imperfect praying and said, "Mair, put that prayer book down! Hurry! Because I must stay at your house today."

I was so surprised by His words it didn't occur to me that my house--and I don't mean this little nest of joy on Third Street--is not quiet in order. The Lord's longing for me was too strong to consider myself. His urgency made me drop everything, including the book.

To what? I don't know. I just sat in silence for a few moments, but it was God infused silence--a gift of presence given by sheer grace. I waited. Listened. Felt his nearness. And those moments were the most fulfilling I've had in prayer for a long time. And all I did was be with Jesus simply because in that one gospel passage he faily beseeched me to let him into the house that's my soul. He wanted in that badly. Beseeching is serious business.

This is how I want to pray every day, intimately and urgently, not just knowing my hunger for Jesus, but also his for me, until my entire life is one big prayer.

Oh, yes. Come, Lord Jesus.

mair-francis

Icon of Jesus and Zaccheus from:
http://www.saint-mary.net/mm/icons/stmarys_icons/pages/Jesus%20and%20Zacchaeus_jpg.htm

Monday, Second Day of Advent '09.

2009-11-30T18:03:00.004-05:00

"I am waiting for the grace to endure my wilderness. Come quickly, Lord Jesus."

So, last night I was preparing the Advent prayers I'm praying at Prayer Plain and Simple on Beliefnet. I began the first week's batch by focusing on the annunciation and infancy Gospel narratives, and for the second week I progressed to Jesus' life on earth.

I was really moved by the Lord's temptation. You've gotta love Jesus for taking the identification thing far enough to become man. But he totally rawks for being a man subject to temptation.

“Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days He was tempted by the devil.” Luke 4:1-2 NRSV

I'm not sure I've ever seen it quite the way it hit me last night. There's Jesus, right after his baptism. The Holy Spirit takes on a bodily form and descends on him like a dove. God's big, audible voice resounds from heaven, "YOU ARE MY SON, THE BELOVED. IN YOU I AM WELL PLEASED." And everybody hears it. You'd think he'd be totally hyped, and from there start preaching, hanging around questionable people, turning water to wine, healing, loving, driving out money changers, raising the dead, and getting his feet washed. I would have. That was a heckuva endorsement!

But instead he was led by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness. Now that is curious, and it certainly softened my ideas about what the wilderness experience is meant to be. I always thought they were arid, difficult places full of temptation, and screeching of my soul's wild beasts. I hated the wilderness! But maybe I've had it all wrong. Perhaps, the wilderness is one of the best places to meet God, because it's so uninhibited, untamed, undomesticated. The wilderness can be down right majestic and beautiful. Sure, the tempter is there. And my personal wild beasts, but God has to show up in some pretty "wild" ways, too.

I began Advent full of zeal. And... um... the next day, I'm in the wilderness. I'm bothered that I can't sleep at all at night, and how it disorders my entire day. I'm a little snappy and irritable, and Lord! I feel so busy. Yet, Jesus is revealing himself to me with such lovely tenderness. Maybe it's time for me to embrace the insomnia, and fatigue, and irritability as if they were friends that reveal my constant need to be on my knees, watching and waiting in wonder. And just maybe, embracing Christ in this wild place is the very thing that will prepare me for the ministry.

I guess we'll see.

"Come, Lord Jesus. Do not delay."

mair-francis

Come, Lord Jesus; Do Not Delay

2009-11-29T04:04:00.004-05:00

Sunday, First Day of Advent
Keeping the Night Watch

A few years ago, I had no idea what Advent was, but something inside of me longed for it. I remember the joy I felt making my first Advent wreath. But I felt guilty. I was Eastern Orthodox at the time, and many of our beloved brothers and sisters in the Eastern Church do not watch for Christ in the same ways, using the same language as the Western beloved of God. I never used that wreath. Besides, I was deadly combination of ignorant and legalistic. That year my Advent was doomed by my personality.

A few years later I was a little brassier, and purchased an Advent wreath from off the net. It was inexpensive--I didn't have much money--and oh my! It was an itty-bitty thing. Much smaller than I thought it would be from the picture. I think I laughed when I saw it. Sometimes you really do get what you pay for. Thank goodness I have an itty-bitty house now. If only I knew where it was--the Advent wreath, that is. Most days I'm clear on the location of the house.

Anyhoo, in a way I'm glad I can't find my itty-bitty Advent wreath. The lack of it urges me toward greater creativity and simplicity. Y'all know I am known for my excesses, especially when I'm beginning a journey. I lose steam rather quickly, then, if I'm really showing out, wheeze my way to the finish line. That is, if I run the full course at all. I tend to drop out in the middle of the race--same old, same old. But I'm learning, y'all, and very slowly, I'm changing. Most of all, I'm praying most urgently that God will give me regularity.

I know that sounds like I may need more fiber in my diet, but that's not the kind of regularity I'm thinking of. I mean the strength and fortitude to carry out the devotionals most meaningful to me, regularly. With the 'd' word: discipline. As I prepare to begin working on the new monastic rule of life for the Beloved Community, I've been reading a bit of the rule of St. Benedict. I so admire him. He stressed moderation and said his rule was for beginners. I love that it's okay with St. Benedict to be a beginner, even if you think you're an old veteran. But I am truly a beginner, lovies. How few steps I've really taken on this journey to Christ's eternal embrace.

One book I read was by Joan Chittister, and it was in those pages that I began to absorb so much about being consistent in my spiritual practices. I'm generally a sprinter, not a marathon runner. But marathon runners, by necessity, have to pace themselves. This makes them a little more prepared for the hard things, like "hitting a wall." I seem to have a lot of walls in my spiritual life. And I do hit them. Hard. So, I'm learning to go easy, and do what I can do, without making all kinds of excuses for my failures that are just plain lazy.

So, I'm having a very stripped down Advent this year. No making ornaments. I just don't have it in me. No Jesse Tree. I'm not even pressed about the missing Advent wreath, but a few things are vital--non-negotiable, in fact.

First of all, I'm not going to ignore the holy longing I feel to be with Christ. Oh sure, it may be that winter is dawning, but I'm going to accept whatever is causing this deep need in me to spend quality time with my Beloved, be it Holy Spirit, or brain chemistry driven, as a gift. Yesterday, the temperatures were in the fifties and sunny. I stood outside in the backyard amid the naked trees in my bare feet. I've never done that in November in Michigan. That sure took the sting off any fear of winter I may have. What a gift that experience was. It was if Christ were saying, I will be your warmth and sun, even in this sparse, brown season.

Second, I'm really looking deep within. Too much of my behavior is my perception about what I think other people expect of me, which is more than a little arrogant. I mean, seriously, who's sitting around thinking about what they want me to do, other than me? I don't even think my family does cares what I do. So, I'm putting all of my desire to please people aside, and asking myself what devotions am I truly drawn to. What makes my soul sing? What gives me peace? What is so compelling I can no longer ignore it?

What am I pregnant in my soul with?

A few answers come to mind immediately.

I don't care how Christ urges me to seek Him, I can't seem to get away from my desire to pray the Liturgy of Hours. Oh, but my sweet winsome Christ is telling me to be gentle with my soul. Nothing harsh, as St. Benedict affirms. So, I'm going back to my private praying of the hours, but in simple ways. Seven sacred pauses during my day. With an itty bitty baby step start. No beating myself up, or fumbling all over complicated prayer books. It's simply a matter of being intentional--something I desperately need in several areas of my life. But what if this awareness, this ability to pause and listen for the holy, were to begin here, this Advent? Wouldn't that be grand? St. Teresa of Avila says, "prayer is a matter of love." I'm going to let that one rest in my soul womb awhile, too. Can you imagine what prayer as a matter of love looks like?

Finally, the only other Advent devotion I'm going to practice, is watching and waiting in wonder. Anyone can do this. You need no candles, or particular prayers, or special devotions. You can do it anyway you wish. This year, I'm doing this devotion here on Blogger and on Facebook and Twitter, and I'm inviting you to join me. Once a day--more if I'd like--I'm going to quiet myself, go within and find my most naked intention and honest prayers, and post them the blog entry for that day, or on my status line on Facebook and Twitter, as I await the hope of Christ to come and grant me my request. For example:

Step 1: Take a few deep, cleansing breaths: in and out; in and out; in and out.
Step 2: Look within. Ask yourself: what am I longing for Christ to do right now?
Sit with that need for a bit.
Step three: Offer it to God by praying as follows:

"I am waiting for the peace of body and mind that brings sound sleep. Come, Lord Jesus, do not delay."

I think that's is a great intention for an insomniac like me.

On Christmas Day, I will post:

"I am thankful that Jesus Christ Has come; He is the hope of my peace of body and mind, that brings sound sleep." This will go along with any other intentions I've put out there during the four week period. Don't worry, you can totally cut and paste.

Okay, it's almost 5:30 a.m. Usually, if I'm not asleep by five, I stay home from Mass, because I'm way too tired to get up a few hours later. I don't think I'll do that this morning though. I need to be with my soul family, as we sit together, waiting for the Lord.

My beloved friends, may this Advent fill you with holy longing, that only Jesus satisfies, and may God grant you peace.

Watching and waiting in wonder,
mair-francis

photo by Larry LaBonte, "Waiting."

A Bit of Wisdom from Tom

2009-11-22T01:44:00.002-05:00

I have to admit, I'm a huge fan of Thomas Merton. Not just a fan, I'm a groupie. A lover. Practically a fiend.

Today I went to the big Central library in Lexington to get some reference materials to prepare for the Advent prayers for Beliefnet I'll be writing until we welcome the Christ Child. But don't make me think about that assignment, due tomorrow, smack dab in the middle of my deadline Monday--yes, the day after tomorrow--for The Exorsistah 3. Anyway, I picked up an Advent book of some of his writings: Advent and Christmas with Thomas Merton. How could I resist?

I have another confession to make. I've spent several days beating back fear, literally, for the love of God. It's something I think all of us believers have to do in this treacherous world. And these weren't big ticket item fears. I wasn't terrified that something would happen to Ken or the kids, or my Beloved Community members. Or even any of you. It's easy for me to entrust you all into God's hands. No, I'm afraid I was feeling a little sorry for myself, and somewhat lost. X3 is the last book I'm contracted for. I want to say I won't be a writer anymore after that, but that doesn't have the ring of truth to it, or love; for I love to write. Maybe I just won't be published. I'm not sure what I'll be, if publishing opportunities will continue, if I'll just run the Living Room, or what.

You may know that on Wednesday I turned in the book about St. Teresa of Avila to my lovely editor and friend, Jon Sweeney. Even that I've had to release to God's care not knowing how it's going to play out. I mean, will I ever do another book for them. I LOVE that house. But I have no idea. I love all my publishing houses. None of them are necessarily clamoring to have me back. And I understand. Publishing is a numbers game, and my numbers are poor. At least the last I heard from Jon was, "It's looking good, my dear." My dear has to be hopeful, right? "It's looking good" ain't bad either.

Anyway, in these last few days, never have I needed Teresa words, God alone is enough, more. But I've found beginning to trust God with everything, to believe He's enough for the whole enchilada that's my life... well, it's got a heckuva learning curve. It's disorienting some times to tell you the truth, because on this journey I can't see too far ahead on the road. Those of you who are old enough may remember back in the day a wildly popular slogan was weirdly, "God is my co-pilot." And yes, even as a child I thought it sounded crazy. No way I'd make Him the co-pilot for my journey. He's totally the Pilot, and I'm hanging on for dear life, often screeching because, I'm not going to lie, God is a crazy driver sometimes. He trusts Himself waaaay more than I do.

But sometimes the ride is as smooth as a cruise down Winchester Road in Lisa's convertible. This is what I know and really, really believe: I'm going to be some kind of spiritual director. Stop laughing, I'm serious. It's the cry of my heart! I just want to walk with folks as a soul friend. Who's going to finance that you ask? That's a good question. I've asked the same thing. It's one of those mysteries God will have to reveal to both of us. If he tells you before He tells me, let a sistah know.

I've already wrestled with the writing thing, so I know I'm going to continue, published or not. But don't think it's easy to release being published when I've made my living this way for the last four years. And that leaves an important question in my mind:

Who will I write for now? It's a good question, right?

So, just after I finish the last chapter for the night, and started trying to wind down--so hard after a story starts flowing--I grabbed the Merton book and fell right into this lovely, amazing quote that has nothing to do with Advent. But oh, how it echoes the yearning of my heart. Tom says:

"I don't want to speak to you as an author, or a narrator, not even a philosopher, but simply as a friend. I would like to speak to you as your alternative self....If you listen you will hear things that will be said that perhaps aren't written in [my] book. And that will be coming, not from me, but from the One who lives and speaks inside both of us."

You have no idea how much pressure that takes off me.

In Church, at my old parish, we frequently sang a certain hymn. I mean we sang it a lot, like Emergent churches used to sing "I Can Sing of Your Love Forever" and "Shout to the Lord." I'm serious. And I miss the song I heard in my parish so often. It's called, "The Table of Plenty."

"Come to the feast of heaven and earth.
Come to the table of plenty.
God will provide for all that we need,
here at this table of plenty."

The next verses are an invitation of sorts, to eat without money, to drink without price and sit where saint and sinner are friends, as we partake of a feast of gladness which will ultimately sustain us. The song assures me that my fields will flower in fullness and my home will flourish in peace. As I type, I'm a little astounded at the beginnings of this harvest in my life, book contracts, or no book contracts.

But I still have my bad days, and the last few were notably difficult emotionally.

I've decided to trust. God really will provide for all that I need; He's done it before, and He'll do it again. For one who's endured so many falls, I always seem to tumble onto a soft landing pad. And it won't be so hard now because, once again, Tom has given me my answer. I have to be a friend, and trust God with the rest.

It certainly won't hurt to try things this way.

Proverbs 17:17, "A friend loves at all times."

love,
mair-francis

The Twilight Saga, God, and Me

2009-11-18T14:57:00.003-05:00

Hello lovies,

I'm in the Twilight Zone. Read about it Here:

http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Christianity/2009/11/Twilight-Lesson.aspx

Much love,
and may God grant you peace!
mair-francis

The Book, The Pen, and a Friend

2009-11-16T01:47:00.005-05:00

Everything is harder for me in November. I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, so much of this has to do with the shortening of days. Unfortunately, I don't usually benefits from the gift of the morning sun daylight savings time offers, either. In November it's common for me to go to sleep around sunrise. If God passes out new mercies with the rising of the sun, I tuck them into bed with me; they're my best chance for rest and a modicum of relief from pain.

The rest of why this particular November has been hard has to do with my nagging anxiety that despite the huge amount of rewrites I've done--it's taken me more time to revise God Alone is Enough than it took to write the first draft--I still won't be turning it in until later today. And every day past my deadline--weeks ago--has felt like an albatross around my neck.. I couldn't stop myself from worrying: about the deadline; about the work; about whether or not Paraclete Press, or anyone else for that matter, will ever want me to do another book. And I've been crushed by unrelenting sorrow. Y'all know what I do when I'm sad: eat and languish. So, yeah. I look and feel, like a beached whale.

I just wanted to do well. I want God Alone is Enough to be witty and insightful, and draw people to Jesus, but I haven't been sure I've accomplished that at all. Often Teresa's ever shifting terminology confused me, or concepts that are just plain hard to describe refused to yield to my efforts to simplify them. The stuff in her books are totally counter cultural, too, Christian culture included! I've had moments in which I begged Jesus to help me, and I've earnestly asked Teresa for her intercession. But more than a few times I've collapsed into bed with my personals vices, sweets and despair. I don't know how many times I've asked myself, why I'm doing such a crazy thing as writing a book about St. Teresa. What have I, a 45 year old, sick, tired, black woman to do with a sixteenth century mystic?

Do you ever wonder why you were chosen to do some task that soars about your head? And believe me, I was chosen. This book deal dropped out of the sky and landed on me. Sometimes I think Teresa hand-picked me.

She was part Jewish, you know, and knew all about racial discrimination. She was also chronically ill. Amid persecution, she clung to the knowledge that Christ was her Beloved, and at times, no one took her seriously for this. She was a woman, writing in a man's world. Hmmm. Looking at all that makes me wonder if maybe it was God who threw us together after all.
But that doesn't the work easier.

So, the night before last I went to sleep at a wicked early hour, only to awaken to the sounds of an argument that had no business happening in a house full of love. I confess my response was less than charitable to, which gave me another reason to feel bad. My rule is, if I don't get to sleep before 5 a.m. I don't go to Mass, but despite this, and the fact that I resembled an angry zombie ready to eat the brains of the family members I had to referee, I got my stormy pair back to their respective corners and fled to Mass.

Oh, but lovies! The sun shined so very brightly yesterday. Temps were in the upper sixties, and the walk warmed me so I had to shed my lightweight coat. Because I moved slowly, however, I missed some of Mass. St. Peter Claver's is growing exponentially. Unless you like to sit in the back, you don't want to get there late. But I dutifully sat where the usher led me: a chair behind the back pew, right beside a magnificent stained glass window.

We have several stunning stained glass windows at St. Peter Claver's, which represent the usual suspects. There's Jesus, St. Peter Claver, St. Martin de Porres, and a few I haven't figured out yet. I happened to sit at the feet of one I didn't know, a nun, based on her clothing. But her face was radiant, and so beautiful, and strangely, sitting so close to her made me feel like I was in the comforting presence of a motherly ally. It felt as if she were hugging me.

Mass was lovely. We really have a great parish and remarkable priest. Somewhere after communion, at the time when my soul is happiest, I glanced at the window again. And that's when I noticed something about my new friend. In her right hand was a feathery quill pen. In her left was a book. There's only one saint I know of who is always pictured with a pen and a book. My new friend was St. Teresa of Avila.

God is kind to give us little signs all around us to let us know we're exactly where we should be. If only we had eyes to see them. I my "coincidence" was His providence letting me know that He'd indeed placed me in the circle of her prayers, and as she was fond of sayings, I was to let nothing upset me.

I'm going with God this morning, and turning the book in with radical trust. May you too see signpost that point you to the grace you've been given, and you have been given it, in your own day.

Love,
mair

P.S. Here's a little Teresa for inspiration today:

Let nothing upset you,
let nothing startle you.
All things pass;
God does not change.
Patience wins all it seeks.
Whoever has God lacks nothing:
God alone is enough.

Breath Prayers for People With Fibromyalgia

2009-10-29T19:57:00.002-04:00

Hey there, lovies. I thought you might enjoy seeing this gallery I did for Beliefnet. It's for people with fibromyalgia, but I'm thinking it's appropriate for any kind of chronic pain disease.

I'm going to put the link, both live and the url. I hope it blessings you. I think I need some of these prayers tonight!

http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Prayer/2009/10/Prayers-for-Fibromyalgia.aspx

Yours in the Love of Christ,
mair-francis

The Canticle of the Lamb

2009-10-27T03:42:00.003-04:00

I have a confession to make. When I'm sad, I eat. A lot. I wish I were one of those people who lose their appetites when they're depressed. Maybe I am. If so, I push past this natural instinct and eat, usually until I'm sick.

I have another confession to make. I'm sad more than I like to admit. I'm good at hiding it. Or maybe I'm not. The problem is, I'm pretty good at fooling myself, too. But sometimes God, who truly loves me, breaks through my wall of sorrow. It doesn't matter that I've virtually ignored Him for weeks. Or that I've been disobedient when I hear His whispers calling me to come to Him. Maybe He is merciful because He knows I'm sad. Even in the center of this amazing new life, melancholy lays on my shoulders like a dark, heavy mantle. That makes me even sadder.

Was it me that wrote all those books? I asked myself lying in bed at 3 a.m. How in the world did I do it? I feel like such a failure now, weeks past two deadlines. Every night, especially at night, my body is on fire with pain. My injured foot is throbbing. My stomach, after two bowls of potato chips (and that icky tummy trouble I told you about) aches and burns. I haven't sleep well in days. Was it me who wrote about a sick, sad woman who found Jesus in the night, in her bed of affliction, so to speak? And she asked Him to share with her His pain. "Share with me Jesus," Gina Dolores, queen of sorrows, would say.

I did not ask Him to share with me tonight. I lay there hurting and sad, and wishing I knew what it will take to feel better and feeling a little hopeless. The last thing I wanted was to carry a cross, even His. Definitely not my own.

And then I had to pee.

I got up and and for a moment I tried a little positive self talk. "Claudia," I said, because apparently when I'm very sad I am not Mair. LOL. I was thinking about weight loss. My ridiculously failed diets slash fasts slash new life plans slash and whatever else that was weighing, no pun intended, on me. "You can do this," I lied. "You can get back on a program and lose this weight. You can..." Then I sighed. "I can't do it," I said in a moment of complete honesty. I have no will power or discipline.

I'm weak. I am needy. I'm a ragamuffin. Seriously.

I'm not sure why, but for some reason in that moment I thought about St. Francis DeSales. Then again, of course I know why. God planted that thought. He's one of my more quiet patron saints. Not the guy you'd want at the party, like St. Francis of Assisi, but I "heart" him, just the same. He's the guy, this patron saint of writers, that I'd want to write a letter to, especially if I were feeling like a big, fat (literally) failure and sad writer. Or maybe get a letter from.

"Send me a little help," I said, and whether it was to God, or St. Francis DeSales, I'm not sure. "St. Francis De Sales, pray for me," I asked, because I feel guilty if I ask the saints for anything other than their prayers. But I had bigger problems (like the size of my butt). So I trusted the Holy Spirit would get him the message. Despite how I felt tonight, I really do believe in the communion of saints. I believe they pray for us if they do nothing else. I was counting on it.

On the way to the bathroom I remembered my dear, dear lovie Gina gave me a book of letters St. Francis DeSales wrote. He was a fine spiritual director, and reading and writing letters is how he walked in friendship with many people. I haven't shared much about my new monastic life, but one of the things Lisa and I are committing to is writing letters. Don't be surprised if you get one, one of these days! Anyway, I hadn't read this book yet, but I hoped I'd find some nugget in it that would give me some measure of peace. I found it in my library, which is waaaay in the back of the Little House, near Bun Bun's cage. I had to feed him first because he started thumping his little bunny feet as soon as I got close, and then I had to look, in the dark, for the book. The light blew weeks ago, and with these cathedral ceilings, forget about changing it.

I finally found it, came back to bed and turned to a random page. But there is no random when you believe God loves you, even when you feel crappy. There are gifts, and if you are watching carefully, if you are listening with your broken heart, you may be given the grace to discover them. I did, in a letter St. Francis wrote to a woman. The header said, "Practice the Mortifications That Are Given You."

We post-modern followers of Christ don't think much about mortifications. We're far too selfish, and that idea is a tad Medieval. But mortifications can be as simple as the very basic, needful denials you take upon yourself for the good of your soul. And more than my body is obese, my soul is starving for a very specific healing, one that God promised He was already granting. It's in process, though it sure hasn't felt like it lately.

I need some body mortifications. My overeating, for whatever reason I do it, is a mortal sin. It's killing me in more ways than one. And if I don't deal with the sadness, I'm never going to stop. Lord, have mercy.

Anyway, Bro. Francis jumped write into the letter with wisdom. It's as if his words were written for me. And of course, in that mysterious way God does things, they were.

"Do not worry yourself; no, believe me, practice serving our Lord with a gentleness full of strength and zeal. That is the true method of this service. Wish not to do all, but only something, and without doubt you will do much."

Wonderful isn't it, but there's more. He said to practice the mortifications that most often present themselves. For me, that would be not numbing myself with food like it's a drug, but instead listening to what my heart is whispering beneath seventy pounds (at least) of excess weight. "This is what we must do first; after that we will do others." And then he said something so beautiful and heartbreaking. "Often kiss in the spirit the crosses that our Lord Himself placed on your shoulders. Do not look whether they are of a precious or fragrant wood; they are truer crosses when they are made of wood that is vile, abject, and even stinking. It is remarkable that this always comes back to my mind, and that I know only this song. Without a doubt, my dear sister, it is the canticle of the Lamb. This song is a little sad, but it is harmonious and beautiful. "My Father, be it not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

Oh, Lord. How this speaks to me. My cross of pain and weakness--my cross of the sin of gluttony, so stinking and awful to me, are like His conductor's baton He uses as He directs the circumstances of my life into the sweet music of the canticle of the Lamb. It's a song I know by heart, but somehow, I stopped paying attention to it. I disregarded it like the easy listening music playing in the background at the grocery store. I forgot how lovely it sounds, and how meaningful the lyrics are. I failed to remember the canticle of the Lamb is me and my Beloved's "song".

The grace doesn't stop there. St. Francis mentions Mary Magdalen seeing the risen Christ. She was look for a glorious savior, but what she saw was a wholly ordinary looking man in gardener's clothes. She didn't recognize Him He was so plain, St. Francis said, until He said to her, "Mary."

Many of you know that Mair is a derivative of my true soul name--a name I'm still growing into: Mary. St. Francis, in this letter written centuries ago, practically called me by name. "My dear sister," he wrote, "it is our Lord in gardener's dress that you meet here and there and every day in the occasions of ordinary mortifications that present themselves to you. You would like for Him to offer you other and finer mortifications. Oh, God. The finest are not the best. Do you know think He says, 'Mary, Mary.' No before you see Him in His glory, He wishes to plant in your garden many flowers, little and lowly, but to His liking. That is why He is dressed so."
Seriously, you're are not going to believe this, but maybe you will, because God is good. Tonight, a little after midnight, I finished rewriting a chapter in the St. Teresa of Avila book, God Alone Is Enough. It was one of the chapters about her analogy of the interior garden--the soul garden we all have within us. We are gardeners along with Christ, and there, in our souls, He meets us. He is the Master Garden, and sometimes, He waters our gardens with no help from us at all. This is what I wrote about tonight.

It is prayer that waters our gardens. I can't help but believe this letter, talking about Christ in gardener's clothing, was yet another urging of my Beloved for me to come into His arms; to simply pray; be with Him; rest in the garden. I so need it. And I believe He is saying "one simple thing at a time, Mary Francis. Listen to your sad heart instead of eating." It's one small thing I'm certain He gave me the grace to do. One itsy bitsy baby step. Just one. I can only do it, because I believe He will help me.

I'm going to go to bed now. It's after 5 a.m. But before I lay me down to sleep, I'll pray a simple Our Father, and dream of a garden that my Beloved delights in. I can almost smell the flowers (virtues) that He in His goodness will help me grow. The sweet song I think I've always known, the canticle of the Lamb, will be my lullaby. And I feel hopeful. This "soul music" is the only thing that gives me any modicum of relief this morning.

I love y'all. And I've missed you!

mair (mary) francis

music garden image from http://www.oisinmcgann.com/artwork/gallery/musicgarden.html

I'm Still Here!

2009-09-25T07:45:00.002-04:00

But I'm a little worse for the wear right now. I started this glorious week with what appears to be an ulcer. I'm going to take a wild guess and say my tummy troubles are most likely caused by taking Motrin over a period of two years. And I took a lot of it, lovies. My bottles of Motrin are the 500 tablet kind. I have matching ginormous bottles of Tylenol.

But the tummy trouble was actually a gift of sorts. One does not eat whatever one wants whenever one wants to when it feels like there is--and it very well could be--a hole in one's stomach. So, I've taken to eating small meals that are much healthier. Mind you, I've eaten healthier since I've been here, but I still had my awful moments. My body has said, "No more!" And I'm trying my best to listen. In fact, I'm gathering my medical records and going to a naturopath soon. Traditional medicine hasn't helped me much. By God's grace and the generosity present in this beloved community, I'm going to try another way.

I had a dream shortly after I arrived in Lexington, that I lost a lot of "weight". I put the word in quotes because I think the dream had a layers of meaning. I don't think I'm going to just lose pounds, but rather, habits that have held me down.

One habit I hope to lose is worrying. What's the point of it. It's like Peter walking on water. He was walking on water! And then he started worrying about wind, as if the elements could actually interfere with his gravity defying miracle.

It's a miracle that I'm here in Lexington. Love brought me here, but three weeks into this journey my gut (literally) ached and I wondered how in the world I was going to make it. I had heartbreaking nightmares that went straight to the core of my concerns. And then the ulcer thing, or whatever is wrong with my stomach. And then wicked migraines and sinunitis, and vertigo. Even before I got sick I prayed some desperate prayers. I told God: You bought me here to do this work for you. You have to help me. I'm trying, but I need You to provide for us. I just don't make money fast enough.

It's a humbling lesson to learn, again and again, it's not me providing, but God. I resist this notion. I want to pull myself up by bootstraps, when I don't even have boots, let alone the kind with straps so sturdy I can pull myself up by them.

And you know what? I got a miracle. God provided. Love is keeping me here, too.

Yesterday, some of the books I ordered--and don't get me started on that drama--finally arrived and soon I can actually begin work applying for 501 c 3 for The Living Room. We have more exciting projects, too! Involving the arts, the under-served and minorities. We were just sitting there talking, and someone brought up the lack of minorities in the thriving arts community here in Lexington. Another great idea and opportunity to serve was born.

For now, edits on the St. Teresa of Avila books are due. A novel is due. I have a headache, lovies, but I'm weary of having been waylaid for four days by pain, fatigue, and vertigo. I've gotten out of the rhythm of prayer that much of this work hangs on. It's time to be a writer, and urban abbess again.

And Lord, have mercy. I'm an urban abbess! Pray for our community, and heaven help us!

Grace,
mair-francis

God's Handmade Soul

2009-09-13T23:10:00.004-04:00

Tonight I got an email from one of my lovies, Nadine. She'd reunited with a childhood friend and shared pictures of their joyous time together. I couldn't help but think of Keysha.

Keysha and I met at a crucial time in both our lives. I was fourteen, and she was twelve. Despite our age differences, we were best friends, and it is she who stood at the altar beside me in that little Pentecostal church on April 15, 1980. We were both "seized by the power of a great afffection," as the old folks used to say about being born again. We were also magnificently filled with the Holy Spirit at the same time, the gift of tongues pouring out of our newborn souls. I told her stories, and for hours we'd be caught up in these tales I'd spin. We got to be heroines with handsome boys who loved us in my stories, and I believe in many ways those yarns kept us safe from the horrors happening outside our ghetto doors.

Of course we drew apart. We got older. We played with boys, and the years multiplied between us. The next thing I knew we were apart for a very long time, but I loved my friend. We'd share so much, and I missed her.

We've seen each other a few times since I've been writing, and the last time I saw her was the first weekend in August, just after her birthday, and before mine. She stopped by on her birthday tour. I gave her books; she gave me a word from the Lord.

I think I may have mentioned the yoga class, or maybe I talked about this miracle of trying to get to Lexington with your help. Whatever I had to report, she looked at me, her eyes full of wisdom and compassion, and Keysha told me, essentially, the worst is over.

Both of us are far heavier than we were as lithe youth, and she'd just gotten a membership to a gym. I told her how we'd be gardening in Lexington, and sharing meals. She assured me in the end I'd be a new creation, not just in my heart, but in my body. Wow. At long last.

My lovie, Erin is becoming a new creation, too, and isn't that amazing, how God shapes us in the image and likeness He always wanted us to be in. Erin's rediscovering her life and sharing the journey. I guess I'm doing the same thing here.

Don't you think it's incredible that you can begin again the simple act of being you? You can keep the best of yourself and add to it, and drop off what doesn't serve God, yourself, or anyone else. Yesterday I dreamed I lost a lot of weight. Sure, I want to literally lose weight, and I'm certain I will in time, but I had to wonder if this dream was telling me something important.

I'm losing WEIGHT, burdens, toxins to my being.

Today at Mass, in the middle of his homily, Fr. Norman (who is AMAZING by the way) asked us to sing. The song was a revamping of the Diana Ross favorite from Mahogany, "Do You Know Where You're Going To."

Do you know, where you're going to?
Do you like the things that God is showing you?
Where are you going to?
Do you know?

And then he started rapping. I don't know about you, but I like a priest who can bust a rhyme now and then. Fr. Norman asked some good questions, though. It's a blessing and gift to know where you're going. And to be able to discern God's will in it, better still.

I guess I'm rambling like this because Nadine's pictures made me think of Keysha's lovely benediction. All the bad things--the weights pinning me to the ground--she assured me are behind me, and life, brand spankin' new and shining, is spread out before me.

I think I know where I'm going to. I'm loving the things God is showing me.

Now, I still have my struggles. Becoming new, rediscovering my life, whatever I want to call my great awakening, comes with challenges. Something has to happen to the old me, and things are indeed happening. I'm making adjustments, body, soul and spirit, but I can face the difficulties with courage, trusting God to know the blueprint of who I truly am, and to mold and make me, with His own hands, into this very beautiful soul.

And He'll do the same to you.

“We are his workmanship created in Christ Jesus to do good works which he has preordained for us to walk in.” Eph. 2:10.

Hope.

mair-francis

Little By Little

2009-09-11T07:17:00.003-04:00

"What I want to bring out is how a pebble cast into a pond causes ripples that spread in all directions. Each one of our thoughts, words, and deeds is like that."-- Dorothy Day

A few days ago, I hung my icons on a small, east facing wall by the red sofa of love, but I placed my picture of St. Terese, the Little Flower on the wall beside the front door. God is the head of this little house, but I've dubbed her its patron saint. My friend Bethany gave me the portrait of her cradling a bouquet of roses. The picture came to me just after I saw one of St. Terese's books in Borders, and was moved to pray right there in the aisle, "St. Terese, the Little Flower, send one of your roses to me. Pray to God for me."

The very next day the picture was in my mail box.

Did I tell you I fell in love with this house the first time I saw a picture of it on Craigslist? It's odd, but from that moment on I called it "my little house". Sure, I flirted with other houses, but none gave me the feeling this one did. And here I am, sitting in a miracle typing this.

We still have too many boxes. Honestly, that Ken Burney is a bigger pack rat than I am! Don't think tempers haven't flared as we've dealt with this radical change of life. But there is still love in the walls here. And we are changing. Change isn't always easy.

I've spent these eleven days changing my rhythm. Actually, I've spent them creating a rhythm out of the chaos that was my life. I'm now, unbelievably, a morning person. The long gone "breakfast" meal I so dutifully prepared as a newlywed, has returned. Breakfast was the first meal to go, lovies. But before the food gets cooked, I trudge down the street in the dark at 6:30 am for morning prayer with Lisa, every day except Sunday. At 7:00 I wake the kids for school and get them out by eight. I do whatever chores are necessary, and then I write. Three nights a week my family shares meals with the Samsons. And you know what, living in an intentional, new monastic community is far simpler than I believed it would be.

It isn't very romantic, though there are days, like Labor day, when we are fairly enamored of one another. I don't always feel like going to morning prayer, but Lisa and I are faithful. Shared meals requires that you come out of self-imposed exile and give of your time and self. In fact, so much of community is just that, giving of yourself. We don't always know what to do, and in those cases, we choose to love the best way we can.

But I've noticed it's the little things that are changing us. The big, dramatic movement is over. We are settling into the dailyness of this existence. We pray. We eat. We love. We watch for Christ's coming through the broken. We are Matthew 25 people, waiting to serve Christ the prostitute. We are pebbles tossed carelessly in a pond, amazed by the wonder of ripples.

It's a wonderful little thing.

mair-francis

Happy New Mercy

2009-09-01T06:50:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was terrible, and that's really all I want to say about that. But I will add how remarkable it is that a day full of hope can also be a harrowing day of stress and high octane anxiety. And surprising anger. We made it to Lexington after midnight. I cried a little when I finally found myself in Lisa's arms. I did not go inside of The Little House. Instead I came to Lisa's, which is home in every sense of the word to me. Or maybe Lisa is home. I'm not sure, but it really doesn't matter.

Despite my many blessings, I ended up crying myself to sleep. And isn't that how life is? Joy mingles with sorrow, and often we feel sorrow most deeply. I finally fell into a fitful sleep around four a.m. I woke up at six.

And here I am, in this quiet house, where the only sound I hear are crickets outside and the soft din of appliances. The sun is rising on W Third Street, washing the sky in baby blue. Like it always does, light dawns. God hears my prayer, "Lord, I'm sorry," and the other prayers I whisper in this morning, prayers like, "Lord, I'm thankful." Mercy was already waiting for me when I rose, and I'm sitting with her, and a cup of tea, and you.

I am thankful for this morning. Today I am 45 years old. I have far too many gray hairs to be such a sprightly lass, and too many wrinkles around my eyes. Don't get me started on my mid-section and epic behind. There are many years of failure behind me, but mercy has a short memory and bad eye-sight. She doesn't remember my faltering years, and all she can see is my contrite, but grateful heart, and she finds it so very beautiful to behold.

Most years I think about the little treats I want for my birthday. I drop massive hints, and I give to myself as lavishly as my budget will allow. But I have everything I want this chilly September morning. It's hard to even imagine anything lacking. This year for a treat I think I'll simply wear my dress with the butterflies--the one I wore to the Christy Awards. I'll make an effort to remember to watch more sunrises, and savor more moments, be they perfect, or imperfect. I'll spend as much time as I can with mercy; she's a good teacher, and lovely companion. And most of all, I'll trust in the Lord; not in myself, and certainly not in my own righteousness. And I'll say "thank you," when it is proper to do so.

Thank you.

Thank you for sharing this life and journey with me, and the new mercy God grants just because it pleases Him to share them with us every single morning.

I love you so.

mair-francis

108% of Giving In Love Equals This...

2009-08-26T22:18:00.004-04:00

“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.” – Dorothy Day

This is The Little House. It's the place your love is moving me into on Monday, the day before my birthday. What a wonderful, AMAZING gift you all, and our good Father have given me.

I can't tell you how difficult it was for me to ask for your help on August 12th, even though I know the Holy Spirit whispered that I should do just that. My pride stood in the way. I don't mind telling you the worst things about me, but hitting you up for money is another thing all together! I respect you. I didn't want you to think I was using you. I was ashamed that this was happening to me. I felt like the worst kind of failure.

I asked my dear lovie, Heidi, to be my strong arm. I asked Alison to join her in that task. Alison is a great mobilizer. Lisa gave me courage. She told me people loved me enough to want to help. Many of you prayed, and on the strength of those things I asked for your help with fear and trembling. I'm so glad I did.

I always say "Blessed are the poor in spirit" is my life's verse, but the truth is I often resist true spiritual poverty. Yet, there I was with no way out of my situation here, and no way into my new life in Lexington. I had to humble myself and acknowledge not just the fact that I failed and need God's mercy, but also that I cannot fix everything. I try to, but I had no "fix it myself" option this time. God truly did what the old folks talk about and "made a way out of no way." And He did it through His people as, I believe, He loves doing best.

Look at that house! It's small, but oh my gosh: it's adorable. And yes, it really does look like that, flowers and all. I haven't seen it except in photographs, but Ken, Lisa, and my son Kamau have. It's about a block and a half from Lisa, on her street. God is giving us exceedingly, abundantly above all we could ask or think. His mercy is astounded. I believe this will be the beginning of creating "a home for the soul." You can't imagine how important that is for me.

What began five months ago as my most fervent prayer to live in intentional Christian community with my dear, dear lovie, Lisa Samson, will be a reality on Monday. We had no idea it would happen so soon, and God knows we couldn't forsee these circumstances. It's bananas! I know it's been awhile since we chatted. As you can imagine, all of this change has consumed me. I haven't even been able to concentrate on my work. But I wanted to update you. I'm surrounded by boxes and insanity, and I'm a little sick tonight, so I'll keep this simple. Thank you is terribly inadequate, but I'll say it anyway: thank you, so so so very much.

Look what you've done. You are so beautiful and kind. I'm grateful.

love,
mair-francis

More soon...

Will You Join Me in Love?

2009-08-12T18:49:00.005-04:00

“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.” – Dorothy Day

One of my favorite parts of Dorothy Day’s autobiography, The Long Loneliness is the postscript at the end. She writes, “We were just sitting there talking when…” She goes on say that Peter Maurin came, and lines of people needing bread—and she couldn’t tell them, “Go, be thou filled!” Folks moved in and the walls expanded. “It was as casual as that,” Dorothy writes, “It just came about. It just happened.”

My friend Lisa Samson and I were just sitting there talking when someone brought up human trafficking. I’ve always wanted to do something to relieve this brand of suffering. The needs are astounding, but these victims are so easily forgotten, truly the least of the least of these Jesus talked about. Turns out Lisa always wanted to do something for this needy group of people God loves so much, too. In the wee hours of the morning, a work of mercy and hospitality, The Living Room was born.

We’re going to get a building in downtown Lexington. People have already offered their expertise to help us get started. In a safe, cozy respite, we’ll quietly offer compassion, coffee, and a comfortable seat to women who come off the street, or find their way to us by other means. We’re going to preach the gospel, but only use words when we absolutely must. If the ladies need more we’ll give them that, too. We’ll make wrap-around services available. God sent me to school, inexplicably, to be a social worker fifteen years ago. Now I know why. Ken and I, and the whole Burney brood were on our way to Lexington on August 3 for our first vision trip. We were so excited.

On July 28th, our car was stolen. Two days later, we got an eviction notice. Most of the time I’m given room to get our rent payments in. Our apartment managers know I’m a writer. My income comes in slowly, but I wasn’t given that wide and generous berth this time. We have ten days to leave. I don’t have the means to fix this. I’ve tried, in the most humbling, pride crushing ways, but I gots nuthin’. I have felt every terror and loneliness a mother with four children and a disabled husband would feel in this awful predicament. But I keep hearing voices—no, not that kind!—but friends urging me to ask my readers and cyber-friends for help. Among those voices is my soul-mother Dorothy Day who said, “the only solution is love, and that love comes with community.”

If I’ve had an intentional community, it’s been here in the little slice of cyber-space I call ragamuffin diva. Through this blog, God gave me the best people I’ve ever known. And He gave me to you. We have laughed, cried, prayed, and stumbled along on the journey together. Now, I need your help, as I never have before.

Will you join me in love? Could you find it in your heart to be a part of the solution to this difficult set of circumstances? I want you to be part of our mission to love people for Jesus. Will you help my family get to Lexington where opportunity awaits us? We would be so grateful. Mair

If you’d like to help please use the chipin widget on the right hand side of this blog. Or you can go to chipin.com. The "event" would be Claudia Mair Burney Family Relocation.

Thank you so much.
mair

Let It Rain

2009-08-02T14:46:00.005-04:00

So, I've been having a rough time of it, right? I've told you about the car being stolen. Other things happened, the day after, and then the day after that, and lovies, all of them were bad. I have to admit I've been discouraged.

But glimpses of grace came into view despite how hard it's been. Today I was the scheduled Lector at Mass. I haven't been in weeks. A trip out of town, a bad fibro flare, and recovering from said trip out of town kept me away from services, but I got two calls about being scheduled to proclaim the word. That never happens.

"I'm going, already!" I thought to myself.

Usually I prepare to read with practice and prayer. This time, all I did was pray. I get there not knowing what the reading will be, opened the book, and... WOW! It's all about God's provision.

The Jews were in exile. Lordy, don't I know what that's like! I feel cut of from my own promised land, Lexington, KY. The passage reminds them that God provided for their ancestors in a magnificent way (Exodus 16:2-4, 12-15). They grumbled and complained, "We're starving." Famished, in fact. God heard them, but He didn't get angry about their gripes. He simply and lovingly told them, "I will now rain down bread from heaven for you. Each day the people are to go out and gather their daily portion; thus will I test them, to see whether they follow my instructions or not."

True to His word, this is what God did: "In the evening quail came up and covered the camp.
In the morning a dew lay all about the camp, and when the dew evaporated, there on the surface of the desert were fine flakes like hoarfrost on the ground."

Hoarfrost??? I had no idea what it was because I was a) unprepared. I even asked my priest how to pronounce it. And b) ignorant. I mean, hoarfrost is a weird word. It doesn't come up in my conversations, like, ever. God raining bread from heaven was enough to get me excited. So much so that I posted that last bit of scripture on my Facebook page, only noting how strange the 'h' word is.

Thank God for really smart friends. My lovely friend Shanna posted a picture in the comments. This is a hoarfrost lovies: “This is the bread that the LORD has given you to eat.”

I don't know about you, but that looks like a lot of bread. For my daily portion, I'm thinking it's more than enough. Manna is everywhere!

There's more. At Mass we also, unbeknownst to me beforehand, were scheduled to have a healing, anointing service. I'm Catholic, y'all. We don't have anointings for the sick too often. But God made sure in so many ways that I'd be there. He wanted to speak His word to me; He wanted to have me speak it! And He knew He'd use today as part and parcel of my healing.

As soon as I realized there'd be an anointing for the sick, I began to cry. By the time I got in line tears were pouring down my face and--mercy!--I'm crying again, just thinking about it. Our tender Jesus truly knows what we're going through. He knew how sick, body soul and spirit, I've been. Sneaky Jesus, He drew me to His house using all those things, to also heal me. As Father Gary anointed my head and hands, the Holy Spirit brooded over me. I know He's working in this broken body. I feel it! I cried for a long time.

I was so stressed about those personal matters that are happening that I was blazing through finishing a book this weekend, while battling ill health, and knowing I'd have company today and lose more hours. I almost stayed home from Church in favor of writing, and I wanted to blow off the visit, but God gently nudged me to slow down. I'm tired. I haven't felt well, nor have I seen my friend in a long time. Besides, I don't care if I miraculously finished that book in a single day, it won't be me saving myself. He said He'd provide.

I will trust Him. Let it rain. God, help me be obedient.

And I had a lovely visit, too.
The Lord rawks! Way hard!

love,
mair-francis

I Am Not Forgotten

2009-07-29T18:21:00.003-04:00

So we bought this car that looks a lot like this one, but the rims were... um... worse. After losing big honkin' man truck when the economy went bad Ken was never in love with this car, but I liked it. It was smaller. It was very, very good on gas. The week we got it I filled it up for only 15 bucks. That was heavenly after paying 20 bucks for a quarter of a tank. Big honkin' man truck consumed copious amounts of twenty dollar bills.

I was happy to be on the road again. Life isn't easy in Inktown for a big family with no car. That's not to say our "Vision"--that's the kind of the car we had: an Eagle Vision--didn't have it's problems. It sorta started falling apart. We started patching it up. We don't have much money, so this was hard, but we were doing it. Yesterday afternoon Ken and I decided we were going to throw caution to the wind, give the car the best once over we could for our money, and head to Lexi with the family on August 3rd. Nothing was going to stop us. At least that's what we thought.

Not an hour later I went outside to take my mother-in-law to the store in my lovely, gas efficient car, and it was gone. Yep. Somebody stole my Vision! And isn't that ripe with symbolism?

Of course we went through the full range of emotional responses to such an affront. We called the police. We filed a report. We railed about it to our neighbors. Ken and I met up again in our bedroom many, many hours later. We stayed up talking into the wee hours of the morning, finding consolation in each other the way the battle weary do.

This was a real faith lesson to me. Facing this loss, which was huge to us, I had to ask myself what it is I really believe. Is God still faithful? Can I trust Him in this? Will I say a prayer for the person that stole my car--and not one of those cursing prayers David was so fond of praying when he composed the Psalms.

Yes, yes, and yes, though admittedly, asking God to be merciful to the car thief was harder. What drove them (no pun intended) to do it? Did they have a big family and need to get around, too. That's unlikely. It was probably some drug thing. They certainly weren't trying to live large styling and profiling, not in my ride. It was the most unpimped car on our lot. When I think of it, I get this feeling of despair and hardness in our car's booster. I guess that's an even more important reason to pray for them.

Finally, Ken and I fell asleep. And I can't say I wasn't discouraged, but as soon as I got to my computer this morning, there was an email from one of my Godbabies, Kosha. She's pretty amazing, y'all. I'm one fortunate woman to have her in my life. She sends me abundant gifts of love, including the wonderful pink quilt of fabulous she had her grandmother make just for me. So, in my inbox was a single line, "I love you Godmama. Kosha." That alone lifted my heart, but it was the attachment that broke the levee restraing my emotions and made me bawl like a baby. It was a song by Israel and New Breed. The title alone said enough:

"You are not forgotten."

I don't care how much faith you have, sometimes, you feel a little beat up by life. If you are battered and bruised by the dailyness of living, take heart. You really, truly, are not forgotten. Don't blame yourself.

Without further ado, the lyrics:

People walking by, very seldom they say hi, they don’t know how wonderful you are
If they only knew all the things you’ve been through, if only they could see your heart
I hear you crying for help, please don’t blame yourself;
You are not forgotten, you are not forgotten

When it’s time to go to sleep and you try your best to keep yourself from falling apart.
There’s no need to fear, because I’m already here, and I’m the one who sees your heart
I hear you crying for help, please don’t blame yourself;
You are not forgotten, you are not forgotten

You are not just a face in the crowd, you are not a forgotten child
Let me whisper it loud, I love you, oh, I love you

You can hold your head up high, ’cause I’ll make everything alright,
I’m committed to you smiling again
And eventually you’ll see people’s similarities, everyone just needs a friend
And when they’re crying for help, you’ll be able to tell them, please tell them for Me

You are not forgotten, you are not forgotten
You are not forgotten, you are not forgotten

Just remember, you are not forgotten

mair

Namaste!

2009-07-26T18:24:00.003-04:00

Okay, so I went to yoga class today. I know. I can't believe it either. I'd been threatening to go ever since I read my lovie Kim's new novel, Stretch Marks. Her characters were all kinds of fabulous: yoga doing and health food eating. One of them dyed her hair wild colors. I read that book and the next thing I knew I had red and blonde hair. What can I say? Books influence me. I just thank God I don't have a uterus anymore, otherwise I'd probably be pregnant right now!

And really, I tried yoga because I've grown weary of these body challenges I have. I don't have insurance, and the over the counter medication isn't very helpful anymore. I decided to do whatever I can to feel a little better, including eating better (OY! The number on the scale now!), using homeopathic remedies, and doing gentle exercise. I practiced yoga in my twenties, and I enjoyed it very much. So, I thought I'd go back to it.

I tried to get Abbie to go with me, but she was having nothing to do with anything that sounded remotely like a workout. I did managed to talk Nia Grace into it, and I was proud of her because her sister went to a birthday party. She could have easily chose to do that, but no. She wanted to go with mama. So, we dropped Aziza off to her princess party, and off we went.

The studio was located inside a lovely little storefront, right next to Cold Stone Creamery, and y'all know that ain't right! But we did not go for ice cream. Oh no! We charged into the the yoga joint, me mustering all the resolve I had.

The interior was lovely. The walls were a reddish/orange color, and everything in there was soothing, and stipped down to the essentials. I liked the vibe already.

We were about five minutes late. The door to the main floor of the studio had a sign on it that said, "Shhhh. Class is session," or something like that, which intimidated us. Nia and I stood in the reception area, alone, for the longest time trying to figure out what to do. I was tempted to just turn around and go home. After all, I didn't have on a cute yoga outfit, just sweats (a little small for me now) and a sleeveless t-shirt. I'm obese, and hadn't done yoga since the eighties. Seriously. What was I thinking? But I have to get over being self-absorbed, and do what my body needs to get better, as much as I can.

I cracked the door, and a man met us. He whispered when he asked me if I'd done yoga before, and if Nia would need a mat. Yes, a long time ago, and yes. He gave Nia a mat, and we quietly went inside, rolled out our sticky mats, and began.

Holy guacamole! I thought I was gonna die in there! I stretched muscles that haven't been moved in the 21st century. Oh man. Am I ever out of touch with my body. I was surprised to find I couldn't do relatively simple moves. I've lost so much of the abilitity to balance myself. And doesn't that show??? Don't miss the layers of meaning in the idea of being balanced. While we stretched, a lot of things occured to me. I knew I wasn't always the way I am now.

My mind flew back through the years, and I remembered a time when I didn't hate my body, when I wasn't afraid of it, and when I was simply who I am: not "too much." Not too little, either! Some twenty years ago, maybe more, I made my body my enemy. As I moved from pose to pose, memories of the abuse came back: physical, mental, emotional, and sexual. The raging bulimia I had revisited me. Sadness rose to my throat like vomit used to. I realized I stopped trusting my body so long ago. I disconnected from it. Stopped caring about it. I abused it. And now, it suffers. And like the rest of me, it craved love and respect.

I got discouraged. I wanted to run out of there. Everyone else seemed so serene. So capable. But I suppose one must have courage to do many things in life, especially change. I breathed back the tears threatening to pour out of me. Returned to the child's pose when I had to. I humbled myself, and I soldiered on.

Every now and then I'd peek at Nia, quietly moving from pose to pose. What a doll she is. She was a real trouper, doing yoga like she was made for it.

At the end of the class we were silent, all of us, lying in the corpse pose. My mind ran amuk! Dear Lord, I'm noisy on the inside. And there I was, in a darkened room confronting silence. God had been calling me to silence for months. What a surprise to find it there. But God met me in that place of repose, Himself silent, but there He was with me. I felt Him, and knew He honored my effort. His presence was like a gentle, "Yes." One yes is all you need sometimes.

When it was time to go we sat upright. We put our hands together near our hearts. "Namaste", we said with a tiny bow in parting, which means "I honor the divine in you." And I see it lovies. God is generous enough to give Himself to all of us. We are made in His image and likess. He did this for every human. No matter what we believe. And isn't that magnificent?

Namaste!
And OUCH!!!!

love,
mair

How About This?

2009-07-24T17:38:00.004-04:00

Okay, so I'm at the Christy Awards, right? And yeah, I know. I didn't ask you to help me figure out what to wear. Trust me. You did not want to share that anguish with me. Not for a second. You should have seen what I was going to wear at first. It was so tragically wrong that I found myself praying in TJ Maxx for mercy and help. And then I was steered toward these dress/shirt/skirt things with a tube top. I loved them when I saw them earlier in the season, but of course I wouldn't wear such a thing. Not at my weight. But there it was, all shiny and beautiful, and it had butterflies fluttering up near the bodice. How was I supposed to resist butterflies? God had sent me to my dress. The one that would make my heart happy. Not to mention later I wore it as a skirt with a wide belt, and as a fabulous top over jeans at a dinner party.

You may notice I didn't have hooker heels on this year. Lovies, that would have been torture. Did I tell you that the ceremony took place on Saturday, the day I arrived in Denver? On travel days I'm never quite right. This was a really, really bad travel day. By the time I got off that plane I was an aching mess. So, I had to use my cane. Notice that I also have a brace on my wrist. It was that kind of fibromyalgia day.

You can see behind me other people are standing against the wall. Those were the other finalists. I had the misfortune to be called to the stage first because my category was first. Not only was I unsure about when I should go up, but it took me an excruciatingly long time to get to the stage.

I wish I could tell you that every step I hobbled I did so giving thanks. I'm afraid I was a little caught up in self-pity. All the agonizing I did about what I'd wear meant little when I was in so much pain. I wanted to be fabulous, with all eyes on me because I looked stunning. I'm not even sure what birthed such a fantasy, but I can tell you I certainly did NOT look or feel fabulous. At all! If all eyes were on me it was likely because of my painfully slow ascent up three little stairs. And you know what else? I knew I wasn't going to win. I knew it deep in my bones. At least people were praying for me.

Prayer really does change things. As I took a final belabored step toward Donna, suddenly the heavens opened. I felt the arms of God wrap around me. Not only did God know how much it cost to write that book--to even get to the point of being asked to write it--my friend Donna knew. It was she who indulged my dreams when I said I love Christian fiction, no matter what, because I always find Jesus in it. And lovies, I'm always looking for Jesus. It was Donna who I told I just wanted a little Christy nod! I didn't have to win it! It was she who listened to me bemoan my fate as a black CBA writer. She knew it all, and God knew all she did and more, and suddenly Donna was putting a Christy Medallion around my neck, and the two of them, God and my friend where holding me.

My heart was split wide open, and all the love I could stand poured in. God didn't have to say, "Well done." With every fiber of my being I knew I did what I could. I tried. And God's reward was greater, kinder, more resplendant than any effort I made. He showered me with love. In that singular, amazing moment. Whatever indignity I endured to get there, and there were some, any slight or pain, it all fell away from me. I was swept up in something big, and magical, and good.

For me, it was the moment in my life like Michelle and Barack's, when they were dancing their Inaugural dance. He looks at her and says, "How about this?" That's how I felt in God and my friend's arms.

"How about this?"

My friend had just put the Christy Medallion around my neck. Other friends, so many of them, old and new were there. Some of them made it possible for me to be in Denver that night. One or two of them made Zora and Nicky possible, in more than a few notable ways. My son Kamau was tracking the live blog, and so was my sister Carly, and bff Mary. And they were clapping, and watching, and rooting. All was well. Truly.

God gave me more than I hoped for. It was better than what I dreamed it would be. And I won! Not the Christy Award, but so much more.

That's why I'm smiling in this picture, cane; wrist brace; broken body, and all. Because God is so very good.

And so are my kind friends.

Thank you all! You rawk!

love,
mair

p.s. Zora and Nicky is now an ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) Book of the Year finalist!

I've missed y'all, but... um... I'm still not back yet.

2009-06-26T21:15:00.004-04:00

So, I've been busy. Mostly finishing the Teresa of Avila book, which is going to be a whole lot of fun, lovies. I don't want you to miss it. This is my first non-fiction book, so it was a real learning experience--completely different from writing a novel. And I must admit, I loved writing it. Initially I wanted to call it "Let Nothing Upset You: A Playful Pilgrimage With Teresa of Avila." The first part of the title is the first line of her famous bookmark prayer. Then, I started to favor the last line of the prayer, "God Alone is Enough." By the time I finished that book, I realized that was Teresa's real message.

Before I really hit stride with the book I had an unusual period of confusion about prayer. I felt like I hadn't discovered my own prayer style. I beat myself up about not continuing with certain practices, like Liturgy of the Hours and the Rosary. Somehow, my simple being with God, and talking to Him felt inadequate. I even went to confession and told my priest, "My prayer life has dwindled to nothing." That kind man told me, "Don't worry about your prayer life. God won't let you go." And wasn't that a lovely thing to say. So I didn't worry. I read and read Teresa's words, and I worked. By the time I finished journey with Teresa and her adventures in prayer I felt like a new woman, at least where prayer is concerned.

I've been thinking about you all. I'm sorry I'm not blogging. There are a lot of life changes going on for me, and to tell the truth, it's hard to keep up. I also have a book due July 1st, The Exorsistah 3. I just don't have much to offer here. But I do think of you.

Will you pray for me? I realized in the last few days how hard all this change is, and I hadn't really acknowledge a persistant, nagging depression. But it demands my attention now. I'm going to take care of myself. You know I'll be back when I can.

I'd like to leave you with a bit of prayer advice from my beloved Teresa of Avila. I won't do a longer excerpt, because the book isn't edited. Who knows what will keep and what my friend and editor will leave on the literary "cutting room floor."

May God bless you and keep you. May He grant you magnificent peace. I'll be back soon. You have to help me get ready for the Christy Awards on July 11th! Meanwhile, take it easy, even in prayer.

Love,
mair

Teresa’s Easy Instructions For Being With the Beloved

Place yourself in the presence of Christ.
Don’t wear yourself out trying to make sense of spiritual matters.
Simply speak with your Beloved.
Delight with Him.
Lay your needs at his feet.
Acknowledge that He has every right to deny you His company
(but He doesn’t).
There is a time for thinking,
and a time for being.
Be.

adapted from The Book of My Life, translated by Mirabai Starr, p. 98

Where is Mair???

2009-05-20T23:46:00.003-04:00

Where is Mair is the question you may be asking. Well, the answer is: I'm here. Not on this blog so much. This is because my girlie had prom, and to be honest, for several weeks she has been Promzilla dragging me across the universe and back. But! Look at her!

Don't make me cry again. Don't make me.

I spent a lot of time with this kid to get her that look, and it cost a lot of money, too. But it's over, and now I'm two weeks away from deadline for my new and first non-fiction book, Let Nothing Upset You: A Playful Pilgrimage With Teresa of Avila.

The really cool thing is that I get to dive headfirst into Teresa's teachings. She's a hoot, y'all. Funny, and winsome, and wise. I'm having fun, but still, it's less than two weeks before deadline, the same day Abbie graduates. I must admit that along with being in pain I'm more than a little stressed.

So, if you don't see me, it isn't because I'm not thinking of you. It's just that life is a little crazy, but I suspect it's that way for you, too. So, let's pray for one another.

Much love,
mair-francis

Inner View: Marilynn Griffith, BFF, Writer, Amazing Soul

2009-05-15T07:31:00.004-04:00

You're in for a treat, lovies. One of my seriously homey homegirls is visiting today, novelist extraordinaire, Marilynn Griffith. I met Mary write here on raga-d. She just appeared one day with a flurry of comments. I knew when I read the first one she was truly my soul sister. That was five years ago, and Mary has gone the distance with me. We've laughed, cried, and held each other up through some good times, and some rough times. I'd trust her with my life, and I can't say that about too many people.

Mary isn't just a friend to me. She's a mentor. I don't think I could have written a single book without her love, support, guidance, and teaching. She's between the lines in all my novels, lovies. Every one of them.

Mary has a new book out, Mom's the Word. If you haven't read her books yet, you owe it to yourself to run out and get one right now. Start with Mom's the Word. Then go back to Pink and work your way up to pre-ordering Songs of Deliverance, the sequel to her ridiculously amazing and incredible book, Rhythms of Grace.

Tell me about Mom's the Word.

Mom's the word is a book about marriage, motherhood and discovering
God's best surprises in the places we least expect. It's about
rediscovery, friendship and the poetic rhythm of God's love.

You write so beautifully about women's friendships, and they're often very complex relationships. Why do you think this theme comes up so often in your work?

Perhaps because it's something I struggle with in my own life. As a child, I was friendly with everyone but only allowed to have a few friends. My cousins were my friends. Books were my friends. My
grandmother was my friend. I knew a lot of people and liked them, but
I know that being my friend isn't always easy. You know that better
than anybody! My family takes a lot of my time and my books and work
seem to take the rest.

I've had seasons, especially when my children were young, or during my
worst depressions, when I felt like the lone wolf. I wasn't a good friend to
anybody, and I felt impoverished and friendless, which may or may not have
been true. In other seasons I was so nourished by my "girls". And of course,
there were also those relationships I had that went through rough patches.
They were, and are, complicated. Have friendships been challenging in your
own life?

Definitely. I am amazed as I observe some women in their
relationships. They just seem to know how to be friends. It's easy to
be misunderstood or be misunderstood in today's flurry of emails,
tweets and dings. It's always nice to have some women who just get
you--warts and all.

Your warts are fabulous. And they're funny, sometimes hysterically. You're at your best when you're writing about the warts. That, and when you're penning those big, epic, juicy love stories of yours. What were you like before you were a wife and mother?

Wow. What a question. That's hard to remember. I was very ambitious, I
remember that. Smart. Driven. Broken. A lot like most young women. Oh,
and I wasn't getting married or having more than one kid.

What were your goals and dreams?

They changed so often that I don't remember them all but they were all
lofty: doctor, engineer, stuff like that. Nothing that I really wanted
to do, but things that I was capable of. I didn't have a good grasp of
purpose. I didn't want to be poor or alone. I remember that. And I
didn't want to be at work when my kid (only one, remember?) got home
from school. I remember that.

You had me beat. I don't think I had much real ambition except to be a wife and mom and writer. Little did I know how difficult all of the above would be. And what are you like now, you incredible wifey and mommy?

Not so incredible. Silly, serious and everything in between. A bit
crazy most days, but who isn't?

I know, right? Some of us are more than a little bit. What are your current goals and dreams?

Ha! To make it through the next 30 days alive. How's that?

I'll take it. In fact, I'll take making it through the next 2 weeks, or even today. It's Prom day here at LaCasa Burney. Pray for us! That child wore me out, but is she ever bright and shiny today.

What's it like to be a writing mom, Mary?

Beautiful. Crazy. Hard. It's a great privilege and I thank each of my
readers for giving me the opportunity to experience it.

We should be thanking you. I've had moments reading your books in which a turn of a phrase took my breath away. You're amazing. Seriously. So, which is harder? Wife and mom, or writer?

I think you've got the order right. Being a wife isn't hard, but being
a good one is and I often miss the mark. Same with parenting. The real
books I'm leaving behind are written on the hearts of my family.
Scary.

Terrifying. I used to tell my folks here that I hoped to do well as a writer so I could pay for their therapy. And they're all so different. If what we leave behind is written on their hearts, those are going to be some very diverse books. I guess we'll have to see, eh?

Brave soul, you put so much put so much poetry into this novel. Are these
really Karol's poems? How much Mary is in those amazing verses?

Oh, there's a lot of Mary in there, I suppose. I just cut the vein and
bled on this one. I had no plan for the poems at all. They just sort
of went in. Once there, they seemed to fit. I love poetry.

Again, you're at your best writing like that. I remember your 2004 blog. Smokin'!

Is it easier for you to write poetry than fiction? I feel totally exposed
when I write poetry. Not to mention I'm so not good at it. You inspired me
in this one.

Sometimes there is no room for thought, just the words, raw and
straining for the sun. They open up and I write them down, glad for
the distraction. I once spent three years revising a poem.

Now, that's how to write! God save me from speedy manuscripts. But sometimes we do what we have to. You know all about that.

Is the process of writing poetry different than writing fiction for you?

Hmmm... The poems just come. I'm always glad to see them. The fiction?
Well, sometimes it must be coaxed off the ledge and back into the
book.

I know what you mean. Sometimes, I have to be coaxed off the ledge when I'm writing.

What else are you working on? In case you didn't get the hint, I've
opened the door for you to shamelessly plug SistahFaith.

SistahFaith, which you helped birth and have been a part of from the
beginning. The network (http://sistahfaith.ning.com) is growing and
I'm looking forward to having you as a keynote for the Garments of
Praise Conference along with Stanice Anderson and Sharon Ewell Foster.
The book comes out in February and I'm looking forward to that too.
Your testimony in there is powerful and healing, just like your
friendship.

Please don't miss this one, folks. It's beyond powerful, and so moving. If you can make it to the conference next month BE THERE! God is gonna meet us in that place.

I'm also part of the Million Blessings Anthology (Kensington, 2010)
with Angela Benson and Tia McCollors. That was my first time writing a
novella. It was fun.

That's excellent company girl. Angela and Tia are first rate, and I love those women.

Songs of Deliverance, the sequel to Rhythms of Grace will drop
December 1, 2009 as well.

Please, please, please don't miss that one, lovies. But read Rhythms of Grace first. Prepare to be up all night. You will not want to put it down.

Where can readers find you on the web, and where is your book available?

I'm easiest to find on Facebook
(http://www.facebook.com/marilynngriffith) and SistahFaith
(http://sistahfaith.ning.com) but I'm around Twitter, my website
(http://www.marilynngriffith.com) and wherever I can check without
getting too behind.

How 'bout an excerpt.

Anyone can sneak an excerpt at the First Fiction Blog Tour
page(http://snipurl.com/i222l) . They're going to do some reviews this
weekend.

Love you girl, thanks for being on raga-d.

Love YOU. Can't wait to see you in June. :)

Omigosh! Could I be any more excited about that? Click on the link for the Garments of Praise conference for more info y'all. And thank you again, Mary. You are a gift to this ragamuffin, and proof that my Father is very, very fond of me.

Let Me Not Be Disappointed

2009-05-12T15:02:00.005-04:00

It was Friday morning. The first week in Lent. I'd gone to Lexington to be with Lisa. I was discouraged, full of self-pity, and more than a little self-loathing. I just wanted to rest, to do what I'd gone there to do, be loved on. I didn't think I could handle much more.

Lisa does some volunteer work at her church, and since I'd joined myself to her hip, that Friday morning I went along. I knew I'd want to spend some time in Adoration, and when she started her day, I headed to the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

I entered and peace enveloped me. Prayer books were placed at kneelers all around the tiny chapel, and I loved that. For Lent I was trying to pray the Liturgy of the Hours, so this was right on time, literally. It was the Third Hour, nine am. I bent at a kneeler, opened the prayer book and began to pour my heart out to God. These were the words I read:

Psalm 25
Prayer for God's Favor and Protection

And isn't it always a good idea to have that kind of prayer.

Under the heading was a scripture:

Our hope will never be disappointed (Romans 5:5)

Even after reading these words I still didn't get it. But I began to pray:

To You, O Lord, I lift up my soul.
I trust You, let me not be disappointed;
do not let my enemies triumph.
Those who hope in you shall not be disappointed,
but only those who wantonly break faith.

The italics in that passage are my own emphasis. It appears that God wanted me to tell me something, because the words leapt out at me from the pages.

Let me not be disappointed.

I don't know about you, but I've had my share of disappointments. Maybe I've had more than my share. I've learned to be brave, shrug my shoulders and go on. But the soul gets tired, and my good God was leading me to pray this for a reason.

After I prayed those first few verses, I strayed from the text and began to pour my heart out in my own words. I asked God to be with me, and help me do His will. I asked, if He were kind enough to permit it, if He'd allow me join Lisa in Lexington to do His merciful works. My whole heart, and everything in me was in that prayer.

Let me not be disappointed.

And right there, in that little, lovely chapel, oh so tenderly, God began to speak to me.

He changed my life in those moments.

That night, before I went to sleep, I reflected on the revelations He gave me. I went back to my prayer book to experience the words that shook my soul so, anew. And lovies, I couldn't find them. They weren't the Friday daytime prayers I was supposed to be praying that morning. I'd turned the pages to the wrong day, and never realized it,To but I believe I had a divine appointment with, "Let me not be disappointed."

Today, I needed those words again. I feel as if every devil in hell is bent on distracting and discouraging me. I'm slapping their evil offerings away like I would a mosquito buzzing in my ear. But they've annoyed me. In fact, I'm nearly worn out from the effort. I needed to revisit Psalm 25 today.

Let me not be disappointed.

God, hear this ragamuffin, and make my dreams come true.

I need a miracle to move to Lexington, lovies, but I believe in those. I'm blessed to be able to say that I've experienced more than a few "God made a way out of no way" moments in my life. I'm using radical, ruthless trust that the Lord loves me enough to provide for me, even in these rough times.

I have hope. Today, it is hope against hope, but that too, is hope.

Our hope will never be disappointed.

I'm standing on that.

mair-francis