Broken

It used to bother me that my statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary—which is quite lovely for being made of plastic—has part of the mantle chipped off on one side of her head.

It never bothered me as a child when my mom first gave me the statue to grace my little altar on my nightstand.  At least I have no recollection of it bothering me then.  It was only in more recent years that I found that imperfection annoying and considered finding a better statue.  Perhaps if money had been in greater abundance I would have done so; or perhaps it was more for sentimental reasons that I never sought another.  Either way, I kept the statue.

Then I ended up with a crucifix with Christ's left hand broken off.  I think the idea was that I might find a way to fix the fingers.

I never did.

Instead, the conjunction of the two broken religious items turned my mind reflecting upon my own brokenness.  Facing my imperfections has also left me frustrated.  Somehow I have an expectation that I must be perfect.

Scripture doesn't exactly help in that regard: "Be you therefore perfect, as also your heavenly Father is perfect." (Matthew 5:48)

Yet there lies the problem with translation.  If we read the text in Greek we would understand from the word τέλειος (teleios) the sort of perfection that means essentially achieving its proper end.  Therefore we are called not to lack brokenness (as we wish we could; at least I do and something tells me you shan't mind my including you in that statement), but rather through it to achieve the end for which we have been created: to know, love, and serve God in this life and be happy with Him in the next to use the words of the Baltimore Catechism.

So the two broken items remain as a constant reminder to me of that fact.  Both still serve their purpose of reminding me of Christ's death and of our Lady present there at the foot of the Cross.

Were their imperfections gone they could not do more to achieve that purpose.  Yet because of their brokenness they have given me a deeper reflection on the nature of reality and through this profound insight drawn me deeper into the mystery of God's love and providence in the most ordinary of circumstances.

Love Is Come Again

I want to share with you a beautiful French carol for Easter that happened across my path a while back called "Love Is Come Again" or alternately "Now the Green Blade Riseth."  I wanted to create a perfect arrangement of it first, but, as I reflected upon the fact that it might never happen due to the other projects on my proverbial plate, there came to my mind the phrase oft-repeated by my drama professors

"Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good."

So this version is by no means perfect.  I hope at least you will find it good.  And I hope you will enjoy this beautiful and moving hymn as much as I do.

Love Is Come Again

1. Now the green blade riseth, from the buried grain,

Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain; 

Love lives again, that with the dead has been: 

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

2. In the grave they laid Him, Love who had been slain, 

Thinking that He never would awake again, 

Laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen: 

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

3. Forth He came at Easter, like the risen grain,

Jesus who for three days in the grave had lain; 

Quick from the dead the risen One is seen: 

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green. 

4. When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,
Jesus' touch can call us back to life again,
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

The Tenth of February

The Web of Life

For Grandma

Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat ei.
Requiescat in pace.
Amen.

How swiftly death strikes silent

The certitude of tomorrow

For her, for you, for us all

Who strive with grasping hands to hold

What life gives freely, to store

Treasured gains that never last.

Swiftly death uproots the heart

From soil of expectation, melts

Blinding judgment's bonds.  The seeds

We sow we may never reap; flawed

Words may seem to do more ill

Than good. Yet Love shines through the mask.

Swiftly death shadows our days,

Divorcing heart from hope that claims

Neat-tied perfect denouement.

The unfinished must go beyond

The grave, her untied strands weave

Into the web that you and I still spin.