Hooray
for rest day Fridays! School got
cancelled again today because it is the North Pole on steroids outside. The wind is wielding its mighty axe of
torture. Thank God I don’t have to be
out in this! I even hit the auto-start
on Jim’s car (he has every other Friday off, so was home today too) and drove
over to church for my visit to Jesus.
I
said my rosary before the Blessed Sacrament in the chapel area in the almost
silent church. The wind was raging so
loudly it shook the building. Then I
walked into the main church, to the back wall which is relatively dark, for
Stations.
There
is no way to put into words the benefit this unworthy blob of human flesh gleans
from praying this “action prayer”. I am
always interested in seeing the new thing He will reveal to me in this journey
of His Sacred Passion, and He’s still batting a thousand.
Sometimes
when I approach the third, and seventh, and ninth stations- where Jesus fell, I
focus on my God- thrown into the mud, and trampled underfoot. I focus on the Blessed Sacrament, and all the
places where right now, He is desecrated and discarded and tossed to the
ground.
The
artist who crafted these stations did an incredible job. They are each clay creations, all off-white/tan
in color, and there is a rough crudeness to the images, giving you the feel of
the stark brutality, the damaged flesh.
They are not smooth, and meticulous, and perfect. I love them, and they are hanging on the
white brick wall that curves along the back, about seven feet up so I gaze up
at them.
At
the third station I walked forward, and looked up into the fallen Jesus, the
crude clay makes it look like He is melded into the ground, beaten down,
crushed down. I stand under, to place
myself below my God Who chose to sink low for me. And once again I think on all the places
where my God is cast off. I close my
eyes and will it- that through the Immaculate heart of Mary I might adore my
God Who is right now in the mud for me.
Third Station
Ninth Station
Third Station
I
mentally dig myself down deeper into the earth, the dust from where I came and
thank Him, and offer amends to Him, and adore Him. My mind goes then to the First Communion
celebration we attended some years back for my cousin’s daughter. In their church they had plush, individual
seats and on the back of each chair was a sort of pocket to hold the song books.
My
young daughter had reached into this pocket, as young children do, and she
showed me what she had found there- broken pieces of a host. I told her to give them to me. It was the first time I had ever held a host
in my hand. I took it to the priest, who
honestly didn’t seem to be as upset about the horrible atrocity as I was. Could have read him wrong though.
And
another time, I squirm at the thought as each time I call it to mind: while
visiting my parent’s parish up north, we were sitting in the front row, I was
right on the end, right where father was distributing communion and just by
accident a piece of a host, when placed in a communicant’s hand broke off, and
I only noticed because I was looking down as the feet went by. Not wanting to jump up and make some kind of
scene I knelt there, and watched as people stepped on that piece of the Sacred
Host. I did not move. I was frozen.
Then
when everyone went through I got up and went down on the ground in front of the
whole church to gather up all the broken remnants. Of course everyone noticed, and Father humbly received the pieces from
me. I still cringe at that thought, how
I sat there and saw Him crushed into the carpet, and did nothing. I sat there, not wanting to make a scene…
My
God! My God! How You subject Yourself to complete and
constant humiliation! For love You do
this. How ignorant we are, we cannot see
or understand the depth to which You allow Yourself to be crushed down, beaten down.
I
closed my eyes again, stepped very close to the white brick wall and whispered
into the crevices the words of the Divine Mercy: “For the sake of Your
sorrowful passion, have mercy on us, and on the whole world.” My mind tried to go to anxious thoughts about
how I’ve failed God in the past, how I will fail Him in the future, but God
drew me back. And I thought, “Right
now. Right here.” Irrelevant of all that is imperfect in me, I
offer right now everything that is in me to offer- all filtered through the
Immaculate heart. All my love, my
thanksgiving, my amends, my adoration.
I
whispered the words that should, because of their truth and need, be shouted
and permeated into every crevice and heart on this earth! Only God could hear. But that was enough. “For the sake of Your sorrowful passion, have
mercy on us, and on the whole world.”
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