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Daily blogging continues building a foundation within my psyche, intimately related to living with terminal illness. Still far from its acceptance, I am no longer at odds with it, even name fresh insights into this mystery, grace. Each day that passes, the urgency to compose deepens as I discover my authentic self for the first time in my life. Curious, that I never have to root around for something to write about. It just comes.

Such requires listening for precise words at any time of day or night, entering them into my word processor, revising phrases and punctuation for more effectiveness, and scrapping drafts of pieces in favor of more exact renderings. Such requires a consciousness that I rarely activated before the onset of my terminal illness, and with it, a strange energy that sustains my chronic fatigue.

As months pass I’m aware of having discarded concepts, attitudes, and some behaviors that no longer serve me. Upon this foundation-in-process, I stand with a newfound confidence and consider my end time; I discern and welcome Precious God’s coaching from significant others, from dreams, and from CPA’s 12 Step work with my sponsor. Daily, I surrender the outcome.

In this process, Jesus’s parable about foundations also speaks to me. He likened persons who came to him, listened to his words, and acted upon them to builders securing their homes upon rock beds, lest floods destroy them: to accomplish this, they had to dig very deep. Some mornings beyond exhaustion, I still compose, but lean heavily upon my foundation teeming with Light.

And another blog happens for my ongoing instruction. My gratitude is boundless.

 

 

Your word is a lamp for my feet. Psalm 119:105

This trenchant verse from Psalm 119, remarkable for its teaching about surrender to God’s will, stops me in my tracks, interrupts the monkey chatter in my brain, and lowers me within wells of silence—Something demands my full attention.

Snippets of obsession break even further apart until their disappearance. Stillness soothes my wounded psyche, relaxes chest muscles, and throws open the doors of inner hearing. Within this oasis of peace, I wait for the word to manifest.

At times, its message is to remain quiet, do nothing; at others, in a wee small voice, it counsels action. Such guidance is critical for each day’s gentling my terminal illness with consciousness and patience. It does not take much to hurtle my serenity off the cliff into nowhereland filled with beasties. I’ve been there. I know.

Such are the vicissitudes of spiritual growth: messy, muddled, scruffy, sloppy, ratty. Within such barrenness emerge wondrously-wrought creations, not of our making, creations scintillating with splendor.

Eternal life must be similar.

 

Midnight—my neighborhood, bone-quiet. Yet, strident voices in my psyche rouse me from deep sleep, prodding me to get a snack. I am hungry, not having eaten sufficiently during the day. Work on the Memorial Mass had consumed me: My emotions ran high selecting suitable hymns from the St. Louis Jesuits that had inspired years of prayer at The College Church.

Four hours later, the same voices pull me from sleep, prod me to sit at my word processor, and write. It is dark, chilly in my study, the whir of the concentrator in the next room. Recall of the accompanying dream story could have specified the disorder—It must be about listening.

Three hours later, I awake to another dream: It is quiet. Outside my window crews of workmen have removed centuries-old oak trees and excavated deep holes in the ground for new foundations.

 More work still to be done—more trust and surrender to the Contractor’s plan. Again, I clamber onto the path and start out.

 

 

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