Brokenness

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I am going through a time of stress at home and at work. The one feeds into the other and I have quite simply reached the limit of my strength.

I remember these cheesecakes which my mother used to make which involved making a biscuit base by putting digestives in a plastic bag, tying up the end and then battering them with a rolling pin. At the moment, I feel like those biscuits after they’ve had a good whack with the rolling pin.

At times of stress, the cracks show. The hairline faults, which I thought I’d patched up long ago, become glaringly obvious. The things I have acquired and achieved in an effort to buffer myself against the difficulties of life melt away. Very little stands between the adult I am now and the lonely, frightened child I once was.

I love and respect my parents, but they were not and never could have been perfect. They brought me into an imperfect world. Rather than setting impossible standards for myself, I have to accept my own brokenness. I am an imperfect mother, partner, friend and work colleague. I try to do my best, but I often stumble and fail.

Weakness

When I first thought about becoming Catholic, I thought that it would make me stronger and more resilient to the challenges of life. I knew enough to realise that if I was serious about being Catholic I had to try, as much as I was able, to hand over my life to God. What I didn’t realise was that this would take me to a place where my own strength and knowledge and ability counts for nothing, and where I have no choice but to acknowledge my own helplessness and dependence on God.

As I try to learn more about my faith, I am reminded over and over that God chose the small, the poor and the weak of this world. He chose people that no-one else would even consider. The shepherd boy David was chosen to fight the warrior giant Goliath and inspire the Israelites to victory over the Philistines. A poor peasant girl gave birth to God’s son. Jesus chose uneducated fishermen to be his first disciples and to found his church.

Recently I was watching Lord of the Rings. It is based on the book by J.R.R. Tolkien who was a Catholic. The first time I watched the film many years ago, I was oblivious to its Christian message. Now it is glaringly obvious. A small Halfling or Hobbit, who struggles to get through the day without a second breakfast, is the only person able to take the ring of power into the heart of Mordor and destroy it. The strong ones and the obvious leaders cannot carry the ring because they would be tempted to use it for themselves.

Hope

I am weak and flawed, but faith gives me hope that God can use my brokenness. A while ago, I was reading Saint Faustina’s diary. She wrote that she asked Jesus why He wanted to use her when she was such a weak, miserable person. He replied that it was precisely because of her weakness that God wanted to use her. I don’t have time to hunt the quote right now, but will have a look for it.

Caryll Hauslander in her book ‘The Reed of God’ says:

It is a great mistake to suppose that those who have inherited the material for their life from suffering generations, and who have poor health and a timid approach or some vice or weakness, have not been designed and planned by God as much as others who seem luckier in the world’s eyes. … He can choose what seems to us the most unlikely material in the world to use for a positive miracle of His love.

Last thoughts

I wrote this post a weak ago, but felt too confused and crushed to post it. Since then, I have been reminded that even in the middle of exhaustion and apparent failure, it’s important to keep a sense of humour.

Secondly, I realise that I waste a lot of energy concentrating on the things which aren’t going well and very little remembering the things which are ticking along nicely without drawing any attention to themselves.

Finally, when I really thought I had no more strength left, I got the chance to rest and refresh myself.

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More thoughts on Advent

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Calendars and chocolate

Every morning almost the first thing my children do is open their Advent Calendar and eat the chocolate. After this highlight has passed they have to wait another 24 hours before they can open the next door.

I think that my dog now understands the word Advent. While they are opening their chocolates, she sits patiently on the floor and follows every gesture until someone remembers to open the Doggie Advent Calendar and give her a thin, brown slab which looks very like chocolate. It’s okay. I checked. There’s no cocoa in it, just chocolate flavouring.

My dog has to do a lot of waiting. She lurks under the table while we are eating and waits to be fed afterwards. She waits to be taken out for walks. While we’re out at work, she sleeps and looks after the house and then almost turns inside out with joy when we return.

Waiting

I’m not very good at waiting. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m trying to do a new job which involves learning new skills. That’s a lot more difficult than acquiring knowledge.

Knowledge can be broken down into manageable steps. I can see how far I’ve gone and how far I’ve still to go. However, I don’t learn new skills easily. Although I try hard, I tend to be tense and worried and impatient with myself when I don’t make visible progress. It took me two years to learn to swim and four attempts to pass my driving test.

It’s hard for me to be patient in the situation of learning a new job. I have to be humble enough to accept my own failure; I make mistakes every day. Experience is only gained through trying, failing and trying again. Often I feel as if I am trying to climb an icy slope in skis; every time I make a little progress, I fall and slither back down again.

Caryll Houselander’s meditations on Advent

In the middle of this, I am reading Caryll Houselander’s ‘Reed of God’. The Reed of God refers to Mary’s emptiness and her willingness to be used by God, like a reed which is fashioned for breath and music. Our parish priest recommended it, because I am still struggling, as a Catholic convert, to understand the role of the Virgin Mary.

Three things have surprised me about Caryll Houselander’s writing. The first is the simple and direct way in which she writes, turning over what I thought were familiar ideas and showing them in a new light.

The second is the fact that I often forget that the meditations are on Mary, the Mother of God, because Christ is at the centre of them.

The third thing which has surprised me is relevant these meditations, written during the Second World War, are to my life at the moment.

Writing about Advent, Caryll Houselander says:

‘Advent is the season of the secret, the secret of the growth of Christ, of Divine Love growing in silence.

It is the season of humility, silence and growth.’

She writes about Christ growing within us unseen, like a baby in the womb, or a seed in the soil. In the darkness of winter, it looks as if nothing is happening, but hidden in the soil, a seed is beginning to sprout.

Just as the Mother of God waited for Christ to grow within her, a time of quietness and darkness is necessary for Christ to grow within our souls. Even if nothing seems to be happening, we must recognise by faith that Christ has taken root within us. If we do then we will learn to see that our lives are not insignificant, because where we go, Christ goes with us.

‘By His own will Christ was dependent on Mary during Advent: He was absolutely helpless; He could go nowhere but where she chose to take Him; He could not speak; her breathing was His breath; His heart beat in the beating of her heart.

To-day Christ is dependent upon men.’

Work, too, is a part of this process of waiting and growing. For Caryll Houselander it is something into which a person must patiently put the whole of themselves, whether it is in the creation of something which takes time, such as a sculpture, or something apparently ephemeral, such as sweeping the floor. She writes:

‘The permanency in it is in the generation of Christlife. That outlasts time itself. It is eternal.’

My own Advent

Reading ‘The Reed of God’ has helped me to recognise and accept my own season of Advent. It is a period when progress, if any, is slow and almost imperceptible. At a time when God’s presence is lighter than a breath, something so quiet and gentle that it is hard to recognise amongst the noise and business of my life, I must learn to nurture the life of Christ within. Caryll Houselander says, ‘We must fold our concentrated love on Him like earth, surrounding, holding and nourishing the seed.’

Growth can be painful. These words from ‘The Reed of God’ have given me encouragement to be patient:

‘If only those who suffer would be patient with their early humiliations and realise that Advent is not only the time of growth but also of darkness and hiding and waiting, they would trust, and trust rightly, that Christ is growing in their sorrow, and in due season all the fret and strain and tension of it will give way to a splendour of peace.’