Resurrecting Chicago

Kathleen Norris’s book “Acedia and Me” has stared at me from my bookcase for six months. “Read me,” it’s glare urges.  But, who wants to read a book so depressing that it’s title squashes interest?  Why should I read a book which very likely would depress me?

Several times, I’ve reached for it only to turn toward “The Mississippi Writings of Mark Twain” instead. Twain won’t be too interested in depressing me and he won’t wax philosophical, either.  His stories engage and even, at times, inspire.

But, today, Like Keats, “On the brink of nothingness, I sit and think.”  Twain won’t do today.  It’s time to read that other book.  Besides, Kathleen Norris is a fine writer, spiritual too.  Here I go.

Pope Francis will be attending the World Meeting of Families to be held in Philadelphia in September 22-27. It seems fitting that Pope Francis’ first visit to the U.S. will be to the “City of Brotherly Love.” Not “Sin City” nor the “Windy City” but the brotherly city of love.

We could use some fraternal love here in the U.S. I’m using the word “fraternal” but intend to include women in that embrace. As far as I know, there is no word like “sisterly” but there should be and Pope Francis is sure to remind us about this and the essence of love.

From out of the pages of the New Testament, St. Paul stares at the Corinthian Christians –and at us– to remind us that “Love is patient. Love is kind.” In words that seem to echo throughout our country these days the pope will be saying, “it’s not about you.”

Yes, it’s about someone else, about other people.

If you hope to love, you’d better learn that love requires humility, enough to change dirty diapers. Love allows someone else first place rather than me.   Kindness shown to anyone is genuine love.

Pope Francis will bring the message of Our Lord Jesus Christ and it is going to be a stunning moment for people looking for the meaning of life, the reality of love in the “City of Brotherly Love.”

Two white flashes of intense pain and I was on the floor on Easter Sunday morning. I could not move my lower legs and thought I’d dislocated my knees.  No such luck.

A calming wave of trust came over me. In fact, I heard the word “trust” somewhere in my being and I knew who had said it.

While on the floor, I looked down at my legs and saw a “step-off” where none should have been, just above my knee caps. The tendons of both my quads had ruptured and my life was at a stopping point this Resurrection Sunday.

For four months since, I have had to listen for that word “trust.” Through full leg braces and physical therapy and through nights of sleep segmented by bouts of leg-pain, I have remembered to trust in the Lord.  My prayer has been “Show me the way I should walk.”  “Show me how to walk.”  “Walk alongside of me.”  I don’t know where I am going to end up but I’m trusting it will be a good place.