FR. DONALD CALLOWAY’S “Consoling the Heart of Jesus” made my heart ache for not knowing it was possible, easy, and did not stake pain to help Jesus. Or else I’d have had the mind to meditate on the belated blessing sooner than I realized it and more than the required makeup. The book hurt my heart more than it healed Jesus’ because I stopped going to the adoration chapel, praying prostrated the Divine Mercy Chaplet there, and moving to the church (or the garden) to do the stations of the cross. Those were the tasks asked for from a faithful who pledged to carry them out for Christ’s work of mercy to envelop the world and, thus, fulfill His salvific mission. My personal issues got in the way and, reluctant to make the church a venue of sin, I refrained from going there while the occasion for it was very much so there. I have mentioned this in previous posts so will no longer belabor the matter. One supposedly holy man is not enough force to pull me away from the House of God. It doesn’t make spiritual sense if I am at Mass and, at the sight of the presider, tune him out and, worse, skip communion. He doesn’t have to disappear. I pray for time for me to come to terms with what he did without his apology to whom he did it to. My friend, the victim, has already fogiven him and earned the benefit. I’m not after the grace, just my conscience to tell me time has taken care of it. As I include his assigned church in my perpetual novena to prosper in spite of his presence. The thankful fact is that our sympathy is less than the empathy accorded his beleaguered body, let alone his unsuspecting following. St. Joseph would know how to comfort his afflictions. Mary remains the allocator of blessings. The chaste couple will intercede on his behalf. I’ve prayed for him enough.
Home is where the heart is because family is the best place to be. Crises come and go and both become the fortresses God intended them to be, like crosses strengthen the carrier. If the church is inhabited by an oppressor, home reclaims the persona of protector. When our family dynamic was rattled by a virus, l stormed heaven, God intervened, and forgiveness approached me voluntarily (a clear case of a continual prayer fulfilled from patience); my thankfulness appreciated that it benefitted the forgiver. I’ve repented for my iniquities to God, as interminably as my intense nature allowed and atoned for. That my wife mouthed off her corollary to the confessional may have sealed the absolution to her favor had her declaration been unconditional (emancipation from a hospital quarantine would push the patient to euphoria, understandably short-lived). That it didn’t take a week to validate the opposite did not give me a long face for a human change of heart. He heard my prayer and healed her, my gratitude knew no bounds. Thanklessness would have been contrary to consoling Christ. That she carried my thanksgiving to her perceived limit could not be a conjugal prerogative. I took refuge in silence and pondered the good that always comes out of a thorn, since it never transformed the beauty of the rose, ever enhancing it in staying put. It is hard to ask Christ to remain in me if my heart were askew.
I invested my consciousness in reading, watching, and writing spiritual stuff. My meager collection comes from the generosity of like-minded friends whose motive is kindred. Ate Myla, foremost inspirer of the lot, even gifted me with a chokti, her instrument in warding off wayward thoughts. It worked like the proverbial charm; cut more than half of the distractions that used to disrupt my rosary. I have made it a habit in my prayer life; a prelude to sleep (by rote, without the beads) after my bedtime brief. As well as my nightly vigil with my Holy Family, even when I’m occasionally out late. Another habit is intact: my alarm calling my attention every 3 o’clock which, like the Angelus, I pray whenever and wherever it summons.
My loyalty to the Union of (Catholic) Church-based Cooperatives (UCC) exceeded that of Fides, where I resigned from. The latter “family” treated my loyal service with contempt, I was adopted by the former that would not let me go and gave me more than respect. The Union CEO, officers, and members were one in welcoming my person and presence in their midst. That they are based in church is not a sales pitch, but a testament that they live and breathe, as long-standing members will confirm and more than a decade of progress sustains.
It was no longer feasible (for my septuagenarian self) to actively serve as lector at Mass. The pandemic made sure that my age bracket is safely tucked up at home, well distanced from chances of catching the corona, or infecting my fellow servers. I devoted more time (and heart) to BEC and the Tower of Ivory Prasidium of Mary’s Legion. I maintained my voluntary columns at Claret’s online filcatholic.org. Made a vow to divert my busyness to word calisthenics and Hallmark (and wholesome) movies mostly and am keeping the promise.
Recently, I was heartened by a bonus (episode 3 of) “The Chosen.” It had the disciples discussing their circumstances while Jesus was healing the sick. John and Mary were with them. The Christian production has an uncanny way of depicting scenes born out of painstaking research and consultation which no bible has ever essayed. This freebie was priceless as it portrayed Simon’s antagonism towards Matthew. Everyone listened without taking sides and their commotion stopped when Jesus arrived, visibly tired and seeking respite. It was the cue for Mary to follow Him, the act an antidote to her earlier lament that she misses His company and caring for Him. It was also a sign for the disciples to still their bickering, infantile and inutile in the magnitude of the task Jesus just concluded, with Mary offering the greater part of any and all arguments. Because it rendered irrelevant whatever insights they may offer in the heat/heart of Simon’s tirade against Matthew, not that they did. John was positively nonpartisan.
Speaking of heart, I’m moved by the Wizard of Oz’ Tin Man. He didn’t have a heart but he never had to contend with negative feelings. He was the most tender and emotional among Dorothy and the other characters in the story. I appreciate but cannot emulate him. He is made by man (in his mind) and his maker’s imagination designed him to be a living thing that moves (and probably thinks) but is without a heart, so his built-in feelings constitute solitary joy, fiction being difficult to define if a tin character were able to function as a complete person. I’m a creation of God. I’m thankful for me and His gift of free will, even if that gave me monumental problems in the past. More than my mind and soul, I’m most grateful for my heart because, while it takes control of my better judgment occasionally, it ultimately convinces my brain that being kind is better than being right, and avoiding occasions of sin is the holier part of being human. Even the supplications to St. Joseph, in his 30-day novena (which I modified perpetually) has this plea. It is easy to see how I was convinced to convert to him; he wards off demons at my mere mention of his name on top of assures me of a happy death. Fear, therefore, hath no hold on me. The sins of the former he holds at bay and the latter’s sting he has placed in his custody.
While my life’s ups and downs sometimes unsettle me, especially the spiritual element, I go through most of my days happy and thankful, from the moment I open my eyes, to the routine of the day and, ultimately, up until sleep. It is at prayer time, when I recall what transpired, and start thanking God for them, that questions emerge; my examen. Was I good to my family, neighbors, friends, and kasambahays? Did I console the heart of Jesus? Would Mary have rejoiced by my obedience to her fiat? Was I instrumental in Joseph’s comforting of many afflictions? There are nights when the answers are either inadequate or not forthcoming. So I entreat God for an increase in faith. And set forth another pledge to do better after my chokti-less Jesus Prayer sends me to sleep. Blessedly, I remain in him. I know this to be true when no dream visits my slumber, in particular, that which rouses. When I returned to Fr. Michael Gaitley’s “33 Days to Morning Glory,” he confirmed my relief. And made me remember my consecration not only to Mary but also to her chaste spouse. Because I concentrated on the gifts of the Holy Spirit, I no longer recognized annoyance, burden, difficulty, and inconvenience. There was no room for any of those as I lay cradled in the hammock of Jesus’ heart. O He and His ocean of mercy. O of little faith me.
Peace is elusive to a heart that is restless. So I still my soul with memories of what I wrote for the week’s Gospel germs, tanka testaments, and thoughts, an evangelization advocacy I adopted for Claret’s filcatholic.org online publication. I had an unfortunate misunderstanding with my friend, the Production Manager of the publishing firm. In desperation, I lost decency and translated my words to despair. I haven’t apologized to him to this day. Therefore, in order to put a period on this, I will.
My Thursday afternoons are taken by my fellow BEC bible-sharers (the first is alloted for UCC’s Board Meeting) and every other Sunday is a session with the Tower of Ivory Praesidium of the Legion of Mary. In-between, I tune in to the first avaiable live-streamed Mass online.
It took me a while to finish the Life of Montfort, a gift from Sis Ana Marie, a devout advocate of Mary (and a fellow Montfort associate), and I’m convinced that the saint’s assuming the form of a worm is born out of a profound slavery to his love for our spiritual mother. His self-imposed sufferings and mortifications impacted St. John Paul II to adopt “Totus Tuus” as his motto which found its way to the hallowed halls of the Association of Mary Queen of All Hearts (AMQAH), an august consecrator of Marian devotees, of which I strive to be a worthy portion of. Now and then, I revisit retreat books of Fr. Michael, Fr. Mario Belotti’s consecration manual, and surf the net for chances of catching another bonus episode of Dallas Jenkins’ blockbuster.
My youngest son Aesop opened up to me that he intends to bridge the gap between his estranged friend Boyet (and his wife Aimee). It has been ages since he last paid them a visit and the recent messages between them were either cryptic or can’t-put-a-finger-on. He recalled my caution for him to not burn his bridges (and I sensed that he had no intention of doing it to the one connecting him to the couple). I heard his loud thinking and reinforced my counsel; I longed to reclaim what he misses. One night, he geared himself up and biked towards San Juan. When he returned, he was neither celebratory nor exhilirated, just maturely justified in his resolve to not lose his San Juan connection. Boyet, in his customary gesture of conveyance, gave him a token, similar to the earlier tangible marks of his filial appreciation of Aes (and me as my son’s extension). It served as an initial seal of a disrupted friendship, a solid pledge that a follow through is in the offing.
For the third time, Boyet struck me as pure in his intention of being a friend to my son. He is midway between Aesop’s age and mine and it is not lost on me Aes’ capacity to charm (and be charmed by) mature males. His silent asking for permission to reconcile with Boyet described mutual their missing each other. I surmise their bonding moments as respectful, however cavalier, and lately, when I sprinkle my messages to Aes with spiritual trickles, he responds in like manner, the effort tangible and true. He showed to Boyet my latest message to him and, while they were both at sea in the profundity of its midsection, they agreed that the conclusion joyfully merged with the outcome of their reunion. They may never know the virtue as practiced by St. Maximilian Kolbe, but the integrity they both exhibited drew them together again. Will they be heartened to know that Mother Teresa exercised the virtue as well.
Never mind if Boyet plans to reclaim Aesop’s trust, already regained in their coming together, through a sinister method (commensurate with a culprit’s ploy, the cause of the crack between them), but Aes thinks it necessary an evil to counter the weight and trauma he suffered because of that culprit’s betrayal. Without pressure, they committed the plan to time; I claimed the prayer portion of their pact (accepted plainly mutually).
Families spawn alien pieces. What cannot be helped as irritants should not be treated impossible to eradicate. Angels and saints dwell in us. God made sure we are confident about this grace as sure as the Holy Spirit hastens to us whenever we invoke Mary. There is no need to be afraid of demons either, even if they create occasions of sin, because St. Joseph is their terror should they even dare.
My bond with Aes is welded with woe. Our past possesses pain different in many aspects but similar in mutual appreciation of what makes the pain remain – the attributing to the past each occasion he fumbles or even obviously tries to avoid doing. The heart can be unforgiving because unforgetting. Which is why I’m blessed by Pope Francis’ exhortation to make the pandemic an occasion for family to come together. He and I obey like potter and clay, until the cracks in our lives are remolded in a manner only possible when son and father meet in the core of their dolor – the stigma that won’t unstick. We have, if not one another, each other.
My son, therefore, served as the catalyst who summoned from my core the missing link that he might never have known was in his, and interconnected my prayers to the Holy Family which became a perfect triune paean:
From the chokti, “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” to the mantra “Mary, help of Christians, pray for all of us sinners.” and from the 30-day novena, “Joseph, terror of demons, keep the devil away from me.”
Amen.