Emerging Women

By Irim

“Woohoo!” I thought, as the 4B stopped next to me in the High Street. “Hi ho, Hi ho, off to Littlemore we go!” It had been a full day – talk to the Research Induction School; Dean’s Forum; the usual first week frustrations with a new intake. Now off to a 7pm case study.

It was just after 6 when I got on the bus (I like early, especially in rush hour) and was rooting through my pockets for gum (which, of course, I’d left on my desk) when my hand came upon an odd texture.

Beads.

I have a ROSARY in my pocket? Since when?

She is eternal:

Curious to see which one it was, I surreptitiously pulled it out – and found myself smiling. It was the one brought back for me from Israel by my beloved teaching colleague, Helen Raucher, and her husband, Steve, shortly after I’d converted. Blue crystal beads, silver chain, ‘Terra Santa’ where Our Lady’s image usually is. Yes, I’m a wooden bead girl, but a rosary given with love – especially from Jewish friends acknowledging and wishing me joy in my conversion to Catholicism – trumps that a thousandfold. It’s my favourite, and was a particularly appropriate one to find as Erev Rosh Hashanah was about to begin.

I gazed at it with trepidation. Anyone who reads this blog knows of my deep love for Our Lady, the dream I associate with her, the fact that I said the ‘Hail Mary’ long before I was Catholic…

long before nations’ lines were drawn – when no flags flew, when no armies stood, [her haven] was born

…but I have a shameful secret. I DREAD saying the rosary. I would rather dental floss an army of cats without body armour than have to say the rosary, especially in congregation after the 10am mass (sorry, guys!).

But I feel torn. Our Lady is what holds me in the Church, and this is really THE form of prayer that focuses on her, and I can’t abide it. I know I’m not alone; that doesn’t make me feel less guilty. “Ok,” I thought, “Let’s give it a go. Best way over guilt is to stop avoiding it. You can do it for an intention, right? Just…start.”

I tried the Apostles’ Creed, but got as far as…”We.” Hey, at least I got that far.

I looked at my phone as soon as I got off. 18.30. Not due in till 19.00. Maybe try it walking through the church graveyard at St Mary’s and St Nicholas’? Had time to spare, what did I have to lose?

I wiggled through the gate and turned left, starting the Apostles’ Creed, as I tried to remember WHICH mysteries…Tuesday…sorrowful. Crap, it’s been so long, what ARE they?

Our Father, which art in heaven…

I passed the grave of the lad who died at 19 yrs and 6 months in France in September 1918, and though I continued reciting the rosary, my heart broke with sorrow for one lost so young, so near the end of a war.

And you ask me why I love her – through wars, death and despair. She is the constant; we who don’t care

And as the beads slipped through my hands…

Hail Mary, full of grace

…I finally got it. Fr Richard told me ages ago, when I told him I couldn’t do the rosary at home or in bed, that the rosary was a prayer of motion. I kind of got it at Walsingham and on Newman night walks.

In the graveyard, I *got* it. It’s what any Buddhist or Hindu or Muslim would have told me. The rhythm of repetitive prayer allows your mind to let go and drop deeper into prayer – even if that prayer is the fact that the plumber needs to come and fix the sink. Even if it’s about a 19 year old boy I never knew. It’s all prayer.

Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit…

As I wandered amongst the graves, beads rough against my fingers, slipping from decade to decade, I thought about love, life, loss, being forgotten and remembered, what I’d left behind and where I was going, the constant, deepening struggle between the institutional Church and my unfolding faith.

You wonder will I leave her – but how? I cross over borders, but I’m still there now.

As the sun lowered in the sky, I could feel the internal stillness deepen, and a sense of peace came over me.

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy…aw, crap, how does the rest of it go? Fuck it. Salve regina, mater misericordiae…

Then I turned the last corner, and the gate came into sight again…and I had the answer. Well, I’d always had it; I’d just been letting too much get in the way, too many well-meaning people decide what KIND of Catholic *I* had to be: you’ll be a good Catholic when you receive on the tongue; if you fall in line here; if you stop thinking about this, it’ll be so much easier, dear, won’t it? And if you stop looking too hard and too deeply and seeing what’s really going on, it’ll all be fine. Will it, fuck.

I can’t say the rosary just like anyone else: others prefer kneeling, saying it together, in bed, in the car, wherever. But that’s not for me. The rosary works for me when I’m walking in a graveyard: maybe it’ll work when I’m walking on the railway line at Walsingham or somewhere else. I don’t know. What I DO know is that tonight, I made the rosary mine. Now, it is always mine.

I need to do the same with my faith: stop looking around; stop listening to even the most well-meaning when they try to change me; stop trying to fit in a mould that doesn’t work for me. The other thing I need to stop doing is getting infuriated/drawn into politics, ideological arguments, hard as that is for me, since I love a good argument. But this isn’t genuine argument; it’s polarisation. And I can only imagine Our Lady’s sorrowing eyes as she looks down on it.

How can I leave her? Where would I start? Let [the Church's] petty [factions] tear themselves apart…

Not too long ago, a friend said that I was ‘a mix’ when it came to my faith. He’s *right*. My faith is what it is – it’s ME. Complicated, light, dark, sharp, tender, angry, loving, sad – all of it. Take it or leave it. I suspect – or rather, I hope – I know which one Our Lady will choose.

…[Mother Church's] only borders lie around [her] heart.

Happy birthday.

Irim lives in England and is re-training to be a psychotherapist – after having been a teacher and a librarian. She was born a Muslim, taught at an Orthodox Jewish School and became Catholic. This post first appeared on her blog The night and half-light of dreams.

By Ellen Stevens

He woke with a certain sense of confidence; an assurance that everything was going to be okay. Toby is normally extremely positive and upbeat, but this was beyond the norm. When I asked what happened, he told me.

He had a dream last night: a God dream. One of those where God speaks to you with insight and encouragement. In the dream, God spoke peace and light into our situation giving Toby the confidence that all would be well. It was an amazing gift and well-timed. The coolest part? God was a hippo!

Awhile back, my friend Wendy had a God dream. I don’t know what he said to her, but it was obviously impacting. And in her dream, God was Donald Sutherland.

Now, I fully believe that God speaks to people today, and I know he often uses dreams to connect with us. I’ve heard person after person tell me stories about God coming to them and speaking in their night. In these moments, God speaks to us in a way that resonates within us, that communicates in a manner that we can hear. But, as talking animals and movie stars? Seriously? How awesome is that?!

I seemed to get ripped off.

Every night, I dream about rescuing people from burning buildings, stopping hijackers on planes and tearing kids out of the grips of traffickers. I wake up exhausted, with sore muscles, having battled all night long. I’m certain there is a reason I have these action-packed, thriller dreams, and I’ve often thought I could certainly draw on my midnight experiences to write an award-winning screenplay. But they do wear on me.

Every once in awhile, I’d like a God dream; a nice, calm inspiring one. And I’m completely okay with white-haired movie stars and talking animal God-characters.

One night, maybe he will show up in my adventures. I’ll be trapped, trying to figure out which wire to cut on a ticking bomb and hear a voice speak to me. Ellen. Ellen. I’ll turn and see a beautiful butterfly land on the red wire. Follow me. I will lead you into all understanding and peace. Then, I’ll cut the red wire. The digital readout will stop. Silence.

Then maybe I’ll finally, truly sleep.

Until the next dream.

This post originally appeared at Ellen’s blog ellenstevens.com.

By Lauran Kerr-Heraly

I hear constantly that men should be the provider. What people usually mean by that is they expect men to work hard at their jobs to make enough money so the rest of the family is fed, clothed, and happy.

When Eric and I decided to get married, out of respect he spoke to both my parents before the proposal. They asked him how he planned to provide for me and eventually for children. At the time, I was struggling with serious health issues, so part of their question was a sincere inquiry into his willingness to be the sole income-earner in the case that my health prevented me from working. He, of course, was and would be willing to do that if the need arose.

But I loved his answer. He told them that we would provide for each other. Provision would extend beyond financial concerns. He committed to providing inspiration and care and support to me, just as I would provide that to him.

He has said several times since we got married that he is glad he doesn’t have the burden of “provider” in the traditional sense. He is glad he didn’t sacrifice a job he loves and is gifted at in order to make more money. He is glad he isn’t the spiritual provider in the sense that all spiritual decisions and knowledge are left to him. He is glad that he is connected to me (and later to our children) emotionally, not in a distant provider/protector sense.

Our commitment to provide for each other allows us to trust God to be our ultimate provider of Life and guidance. Christ is the head of our marriage, not one of us.

Lauran Kerr-Heraly is a graduate student at the University of Houston where she also teaches Women’s Studies. She shares a hyphenated name and a blog with her husband. Follow her writing at http://thehyphenhouse.blogspot.com (where this post originally appeared) and www.thisordinaryday.com.

By Renee Hixson

It was a rainy day. I needed to wash clothes, clean the house and prepare a lesson for Sunday school. But I just wanted to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head and fall asleep. At least it would give me a little break from the crazy mess my life had become. No matter how hard I tried I could not keep the house clean enough for all the people that dropped by throughout the day, train my kids well enough to impress the congregation of the church where my husband worked, or network cleverly enough to fulfill my role as a pastor’s wife. I was a failure. That was all I would ever be.

“Mom, we got books overdue,” one of my kids tugged at my arm as I shoved a large plastic dump truck out of the way and picked a few dirty cereal bowls off the table, “Can we go to the library?”

“Why not,” I muttered and grabbed my coat. After leaving instructions to my oldest child to take care of his little brother we left the apartment and headed to the library.

“Somebody’s hurt,” my son gasped when the wail of a siren came from somewhere behind us. My son pressed his chest against his seatbelt to get a better look at the ambulance that raced by seconds later.

“They’ll be O.K., right?” He asked when the rescue vehicle disappeared into traffic. All he wanted to know was a medical prognosis for an unknown individual suffering from an unknown trauma for an unknown reason. My job was to provide the answer “yes” because I was Mom and somehow it was in my job description to make “everything beautiful”. Another failure. But, I had to try.

“If God cares for sparrows…” I sputtered in my best this-is-from-the-Holy-Bible-but-I-will-dumb-it-down-for-you voice, “You know…those…um…scrawny little birds that poop all over the sidewalk…he must really love every little boy and girl…”

In the middle of this pitiful theological dissertation my son pointed to a cluster of weathered apartment units complete with sagging swing sets and scattered toys.

“Look,” he squealed, “that sign says, ‘Pets Welcome’.”

I glanced at the two words carved on a wooden sign in front of the complex and braced for a passionate plea for a family pet. At least it would an easier conversation to maneuver than an inquiry into the medical state of an unknown person in speeding vehicle.

I was wrong.

“I am so glad,” my son said as the sign receded in the distance, “there is a place for pets that have no home.”

“Not…exactly,” I stalled as I scrambled for an answer that would not totally destroy his joy over the kindness of strangers in weathered apartment units, “It’s for pet owners who want to move in.”

Too late. My imagination was captivated. Tired, lonely pets lining up in front of the co-op for comfort and sustenance. Little puppies that’d been abandoned, cats on their own, maybe even a gerbil or two could wander by and find a welcoming shelter from the cold, cruel world.

“Wouldn’t mind checking one out for myself,” I thought as I pondered the mangy, flea bitten core of my being. I felt like a stray dog in the world of the spirit, even though I had an owner. God was my father. Where was He now?

I know. I know. The Sunday school teachers of my childhood adopted “God is everywhere,” as their battle cry while they fought for space in children’s minds to store eternal truth. I had witnessed enough flannel graph lessons to know that God was too big to huddle in the confines of a temple made of stone, wood or any other material. He swelled the ocean waves, echoed through the mountains and gently rustled through the meadows in the early morning sun.

My struggle was not with His omnipresence but with my unworthiness to be in His world. I was a shy kid growing up, practically invisible. As an adult, my peers looked right through me in search of friendship with people of consequence, movers and shakers in confusing world of spiritual greatness.

After dumping our overdue books off at the Public Library I drove back home. The chaos of a tiny apartment filled with three other kids had not disappeared but a brought something back with me, something tiny and precious. It was a glimmer of truth no bigger than a thought but I held on to it. I still hold onto it today. God delights in his children not because they are skinny, or clever or careful to follow all the rules. He loves the broken, the bruised and the strays. His love is untamed and unending. It takes my breath away.

Renee Hixson is a mom, wife, and former pastor’s kid. She’s currently on a journey making her way back to the truth and often finds direction in the innocence of her own children.