UCW Limerick - a group effort

Some light refreshment for a grey November day:

There once was a place named Five Oaks
That was filled with laughter and jokes.
Elizabeth was there,
With her clashing red hair,
While Cathy Eves danced for the folks.
The bats came to view
The hats on review;
Pink, red, and black
To mention a few.
Several stories were told
Of the brave and the bold
As we partied to ward off the cold.

Why does Beowulf upset me?

For some reason the new movie release of Beowulf upsets me. I guess it's because I’m tired of seeing Hollywood remake European films. The Beowulf that came out a couple of years ago was made by people whose ancestry is from the part of the world where the story is told, and for whom the story therefore has some tribal or cultural meaning. That meaning became imbedded in the film and made it interesting even to those of us who do not share that background. I think we all enjoy hearing each others ancient stories--there’s a resonance to them that we can all relate to.
But when a major studio gets hold of one of these gems, they digitize it and sex it up and put in all those great two-bit quote lines, thus distorting the origins of the story and ruining the resonance.
This doesn't happen when Hollywood sticks to what it knows best and tells an American folk tale, such as The Patriot or Alamo. In these films the tone and style ring true, the substance reflects the story, and we get caught up in that American patriotism that can be so stirring even to non-Americans.Why not find a Native American story to tell instead of rehashing a distant myth? After the acclaimed reception of Canada’s Attanarjuat a few years ago, I’d like to see more North American tribal tales retold on screen. I bet I’m not alone.

Labyrinth Prayer

I look to the South, oh God, and feel the light and warmth of your healing sprit.
I look to the East, oh God, and feel your dawning inspiration, your joyful creation.
I look to the West, oh God, feel your exultant companionship, and wish to dance.
I look to the North, oh God, feel your gentle comfort, and peacefully take my rest.
I stand in the centre, ground myself in your spirit, and feel you take root in mine.

More on Suffering

I’ve been attending a seminar at my church lately, The Foundations Of Spiritual Companionship. It’s to help pastoral care providers offer more compassionate care, especially when visiting the ill. We were asked to think about our theology of suffering, and to reflect on the book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Rabbi Kushner.
As I think more on this issue, I realize I have not adequately explained what I mean by bad things happening randomly. I am referring to what I see in nature. Lightning does not choose the tree it strikes. Tornadoes do not choose where to set down. Hurricanes do not choose where they will touch land. Forest fires do not choose what they will burn. There is no place in the word where one sort of natural disaster or another will not occur at some point. God does not will these natural events, nor choose the victims. In the same way, I do not think God chooses who will get cancer, or who will be in a plane crash. Rabbi Kushner say that when disaster strikes, we should not ask, why did this happen to me, but, now that his had happened to me, what am I going to do about it?I think this is a healthy approach.

My Theology of Suffering

My theology of suffering has evolved over the years, in a way almost coming full circle. When I was younger, I didn’t question; I took an animalistic view that suffering is simply a part of life, happening randomly, with compassion being the only appropriate response. Then I became deeply involved in prayer, especially in intercessory prayer, joining the prayer circles at the churches that I belonged to. Through this process, I became amazed by the miracles that God often works through prayer, and gradually became convinced that prayer could cure all ills, if only we prayed hard enough, or if only the recipient of the prayers was receptive enough. Thus, although I still felt the initial suffering was randomly placed, I believed that the response to the suffering was under human control through openness to prayer.
I learned the naiveté of that belief when a friend's young son died of brain cancer last year. Man, was that boy prayed for. No one could have received more heartfelt prayers than he. And he was most receptive to prayer, being a very loving and spiritual child. Yet he died anyway. I was devastated, not only but the loss, but also by the shattering of my beliefs. How could God have let me down so? How could God have allowed this child to die? Why hadn't God worked one of his miracles for Matthew?
In the midst of my raging, I went to a one-day spiritual retreat, where I had the brief enlightenment that God does not view death the same way we do. God after all is eternal, and looks at the human condition from that point of view. Although she feels our suffering, she also knows about our afterlife, and this vision, a curtain briefly lifted for me, so that I could almost grasp the eternal message, allowed me to see that there is so much more to the picture than I could ever grasp.
So now, although I have not abandoned my habit of prayer, I have come to understand that suffering happens randomly, and healing cannot be guaranteed, and our only viable response is compassion.

Garden Cats

My cats like to help me garden. They like to roll in the dirt, and dig holes, and add their own brand of fertilizer for me. They appreciate my plants, choosing favourites for shade, or for hairball remedies, or for hiding under. They especially love the fresh catnip. They have their trails to follow through the garden when chasing each other, and me. Raking leaves is always a cause for feline celebration. My cats race and leap for joy whenever I join them in the garden, unless it’s a hot sunny day, when they merely smile and roll over on the deck. It’s as if they’re saying, “How can you design such a beautiful garden and spend so little time in it? You must sit here all day, every day, in order to truly understand its essence.” Perhaps they’re right.

Ghost Bride

She glides down the aisle,
Her delicate feet seeming to float above
The red carpet.
Her satin-gloved hands
Clasp ethereal flowers,
Glowing in their whiteness.
She reaches her intended,
Turns to face him;
He smiles.
His fingers drift to her veil.
Slowly he lifts it,
Barley able to wait
To catch a glimpse
Of her lovely face.
Her beauty revealed at last,
He faints dead away,
Joining his wife in eternity.
Her skeletal grin mocks the assembled.