So, months ago, I wrote a few blog fictions without changing from my normal autobiographical blog stuff. Not that we aren't a fiction of our own making no matter what. Long ago I realized that I pretty much dress for the part that I am playing at any given time. If I am the sick lady, I wear PJs and a sweat shirt. If I am the proper woman, I wear my pearls. If I am the sport, I wear my trainers. We all do. My home is the stage set for the current drama. My story is the internal monologue I run. Today I am a victim. Yesterday I was the proud grandmother. Another day I might be the world traveler.
In those 'fiction' blogs, I was meeting with a priest and it was intimate and powerful. This week I did just that in real life. A few weeks ago, I went to Mass here in California. The priest was a tall, handsome man from India. Lovely Indian accent. I don't remember what he said particularly. I do remember having a feeling of being quieted and when he spoke the word 'love', I felt something. A transmission of love.
As the days followed, I was beset by disharmonious feelings. I was on an emotional roller coaster. One such day as I road my bike past the church, I ran into a woman coming out of the office. I asked her if she worked there. She did. Could I make an appointment to talk with a priest. "I guess you could." she said and gave me the office number.
When I called I said I needed to talk with a priest. I know the receptionist was a little baffled because I was no one she knew and I didn't offer any explanation of my business. She gave me an appointment for the next day. I didn't dare hope it was the Indian guy.
It was. Father Lawrence. I said that I was having a crisis of faith. When I needed it the most it was alluding me. He said he had prepared for our meeting in prayer and he felt that I was having an ego problem. Oh My God. I was. I didn't want to be the person who was losing her shit. I didn't want to be the frazzled one. I wanted to be in control of my life and I was pissed off that I was friggin' human. God was fine. I was fully in the way of any help or comfort that was being offered me.
You are probably thinking that this is generic God talk and that Father Lawrence had no insight into my very special very ME situation. I assume that he did and he didn't. The thing was that I felt the same transmission of Love coming from his heart to my heart that I had during Mass and the way he spoke communicated to the wounded ego me as well as to the higher being of me. It was a powerful good meeting.
This is what I was going for in my fiction and then I was gifted it in real life. Who could have known?
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