Skip to main content

What hubris have I

It is not fun to be in a "dry" place spiritually. You find yourself saying, not praying, prayers a lot, but you keep at it. You do all the things you are supposed to do: keep close to the sacraments, do good works, pray, read the saints. Yet, there is no consolation.

That is, you don't "feel" good about your faith. You don't, in fact, "feel" much of anything. There is not a closeness to God that gives comfort, a joy from your faith that gives courage and vitality. There is no drink of water to quench the powerful thirst you have for Christ.

I've been in this place for awhile. I'm sort of used to it, and I just try to trudge along as best I can. However, this past weekend, I REALLY wanted to feel something. I REALLY wanted a little bit of joy, of inspiration, of comfort. Where better at the Easter Vigil Mass or the Easter Sunday Mass? And so I prayed for just that. I prayed that God would grant me just a bit of joy, a bit of comfort, a bit of consolation.

Somewhere in the midst of Mass on Sunday, I thought to myself, "What hubris! Who the heck do I think I am, asking God for this? Surely, God knows what He is about, and there is some reason why I am where I am." And I stopped praying those prayers.

 He found them in a wilderness,
a wasteland of howling desert.
He shielded them, cared for them,
guarded them as the apple of his eye,
Dt. 32:10


  1. this was my Advent prayer...very fruitful meditation!

  2. Thank you! Appreciate the feedback.


Post a Comment

I love comments, even if you don't agree, but please don't leave anonymous posts. A well-mannered reader leaves a name!

Popular posts from this blog

Trying to "end run" God

If you're a football fan, you know what an end run is. From Merriam-Webster:
a football play in which the ballcarrier attempts to run wide around the end of the line We try to "end run" God a lot. I do. I figure I know better. I've got this - no need to worry the Big Guy about such a trivial thing.

Of course, it never works.

Like the puppy above, when we try and evade the tough obstacle (even though we KNOW we will eventually have to do it), we end up - well, off in the bushes.

But oh! How I wished my way worked. I'd love to take a flying leap and land smoothly and gracefully. People would be in awe, as if watching Simone Biles nail a balance beam routine that no one else would even attempt. I would shyly look down and blush - just lightly - and acknowledge (But humbly! Oh so humbly!) my achievement.

But no: I am the one pulling myself out of the bushes, scratches all over my legs and twigs in my hair. I'd hear that gentle but loving voice of God saying, &quo…

Secret Santa!!

Too old for Santa? I think not.

Yes, there are discussions as to whether we should "lie" to kids and tell them that Santa brings them gifts vs. We can't lie to the kids; it's wrong.

There is also the "Christmas is about Jesus" vs. "But Santa is magical!"

You know, we have so few magical and joyful moments, and less and less as we get older. Santa is fun. And the kids usually figure it out, and no one I know was ever scarred for life for believing that Santa brought them and every child everywhere a toy for Christmas.

It's the magic of looking up at the sky on a clear December night, thinking "I'll wait up to see Santa" and later, as you fell asleep at the window, being in your daddy's arms as he carries you to bed.

It's the magic of putting out cookies and milk (or beer, because Santa does like beer) and maybe some carrots for the reindeer, and then checking in the morning to make sure the food was all consumed.


Advent Brokenness

It was a lovely May evening, the kind we in Michigan savor like honey. After the brutal cold of winter, flowers blossomed, grass greened, mosquitoes flocked. School was almost done for the year - just the formalities of 8th grade graduation were ahead.

Why not saddle up the horse and go for a ride? Why not, indeed. So my sister and I did. I took Prince out across the road from our house, to romp through the weeds on a path my father mowed for us. The view from horseback on a spring night - well, nearly Heaven.

Until Prince bolted. He spooked. I fell. And my arm broke. Compound fracture.

My dog, a collie, had followed us out. He was not particularly trusting of Prince, as Prince would never allow himself to be herded, and this vexed my collie. My dog, channeling his inner Lassie, ran home without me.

My sister had been in the yard with her boyfriend at the time, Gary, waiting for me to come back. Instead, it was just the dog loping across the road. That didn't seem right, so my si…