There’s a moment every week at church when I doubt the whole thing. I mean all of it. I’m right there in front of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thinking my doubty thoughts and trying to make sense of it. Eve eating that darn apple, the massive fish swallowing Jonah, seas parting, and the all-you-can-eat buffet of loaves and fishes. I look up at Mary, kneel, and pray for my life here that I know, this is real. On the long escalators moving slowly toward Heaven and Hell, I see myself terrified, and unsure, like when I get on I-75…the unknowing wonder of traffic or delays or rerouting.
I say all of this a little worried God is taking notes, writing my name on a chart under the heading DOUBTERS: my name sitting under Thomas’.
Then I hope and see things like dandelions peeking through sidewalk cracks, cranes landing on their little skinny legs, or hundreds of bees pollinating an apricot tree. Or I hear Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing and the hysterical laughter of kids after one of them says, “Orange you glad I didn’t say banana”?
This is me “Seeking the Lord”. This is my evidence that God IS everywhere, in goodness, and service, and in beauty, laughter, and love. Maybe God is like butterflies in springtime, flitting gently by…grateful for flowers and generous with joy.
This past week at church…
I stared at the altar, questioning again, but perhaps worried and scared of dying someday more than anything else. As I looked at the cloth draped over that altar, I pictured an elderly mom like mine ironing it, her own service to God.
The Chalice shone as Father Paul lifted it way above his head like he was stretching his arms before a swim. He held his gaze as if waiting for God to blink. Then I saw it. The joy in his face. It was as if he were the luckiest guy to be able to pray and preach and perform this merciful mystery every day with us.
I know he truly believes it because one day, when talking about the Sacraments at Mass, he said, “See, I can’t get married and have kids, but you guys can’t become priests.” The congregation let out an audible chuckle, and he said it again, “No, I’m serious”. Silence fell. I stood in awe and thought, yup, this guy is right where he needs to be, my doubts declined.
What I learned
I think we all doubt. Maybe only on our worst days, when we’ve told our Mom with Dementia “Today is Saturday” 389 times, or feel like a terrible mom because you said too much, or didn’t stop scrolling to listen. Or you wonder if you should call the vet because she’s old, and even though she wags, barks, and eats, life is dwindling inside her.
Then I hope. I hope it’s all there. Heaven. I hope there are great trails to run on and warm brownies at the finish line. I hope we all know each other and make time for coffee. I hope, I hope, I hope.
Thanks for joining me.
I’m so glad you’re here,
Lucretia
runonmom.com 