“Because it seemed like a good idea at the time...”
[...was achieved, 26% of study participants reported one, or various combinations, of the following involuntary responses: brief loss of sight; a sensation of falling; loss of fine motor skills; trembling in extremities, and/or involuntary vocalizations. If... was achieved by a combination of... instance of involuntary responses as listed above rose to 92% with a high occurrence (more than 72%) of an inability to breathe...]
I decide to turn over a new leaf and so I say yes (for once) and go to Mass with Lillian. After all, these are dark times and all that yadda and maybe my heart needs a little stain glass light stations of the cross contemplation down on my knees God be with you and also with you inspiration.
I wake with little grrl eyes when Lillian turns off my alarm and strokes my hair. Over her arm is an eggshell white dress in layers of silk and soft lace. I blink up at her. She lays the dress down and moves soundlessly from my room. The smells of dark coffee and fresh sourdough with clover honey fill the space around me. I lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling, my fingers moving over the line between silk and lace.
“...like silk to brushed lace, satin to fine corduroy, you changed under my fingertips in a tangible expression of desire. You whispered something to me. But I found I was breathless and could not respond...”
I think to myself, “In for a dime, in for a dollar.” and I pull myself out of bed as well as out of my d6 boxers. I know I have grrl's underwear somewhere... and I think it's in my size.
Lillian French braids my dark hair with white ribbons. She smiles down at my grandmother's prayer beads, double looped dark olive wood spilled over the high-necked opaque front of the dress. It is surprising comfortable... I feel sheathed in... hm. I draw my mind back to the kitchen. I have not been able to speak to Lillian yet. There is something more perfect in this unspoken time.
She tips my head up with two fingers under my chin. She contemplates my unadorned face. I am three shades darker than the headshot attached to my resume. After an indeterminable moment, dawn's clean light slipping across the tile counters and floor, slipping into my empty coffee mug, across the honey toast crumbs, Lillian nods once and gives me a hint of a smile. Her perfume is exotic. Her suit is Italian. She nods once more and I rise as if commanded in my heels and stockinged legs. I follow her from the house; I am a different woman with very little effort... but with a universe of awareness.
“...were going to be late, the evening almost certainly ruined, and she made a small sound. It may have been a sound of apology had she glimpsed my angry glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer. I looked up. At the top of the stairs she was poured into low waisted black leather pants and a white silk shirt cast with ruffles, waves of softness, across her small breasts. I drew sharp breath. My heart pounded. I felt faint. I had to look away.”
I am presentable. The little white purse and black hymnal work so well as accessories to my good grrl outfit. I keep my eyes on Lillian's face or on the ground. The incredible marble of the cathedral floor is peach and rose and white. My mind is bright and blank, as if willed that way so that my thoughts won't offend this structured holy place with its traditions and rituals of human comfort. I bob my head. Smile without showing my teeth. Avert my eyes. Fold my hands. Lillian introduces me as Angel.
I take in textures through osmosis. As the priest murmurs in a tone patterned to soothe, I absorb the cold of the marble floors and stone columns. The oak and velvet of the pews. The leatherette of the pad beneath my knees. The ricepaper thin pages of the mass-produced Bibles. I breathe slowly and deeply and draw the scents of this place into my body, allow them to become part of me.
“...I remember... I remember your perfume. Still so far away. In my parents' house. Your bandanna. Your perfume. Wild roses. I slept with it under my pillow. Buried my face in it. Closed my eyes. Wanted to breathe nothing else...”
“And I can still smell you on my fingers, and taste you on my breath...”
Half way through the service I think about the light coming in the highest stain glass panes and I look up to see the molten lead lines that stitch together angels... but my gaze never rises that far.
Her red hair braided modestly, her deep green blouse ripples down her narrow torso and tucked into pleated black slacks, is the Horseman of the Apocalypse I danced with not so long ago... when I was, of course, that other Angel. A totally different woman. My mouth opens. Did I think she went forth on her steel horse to seek the other riders and discover the seventh seal? I am about to blink and look away... when she looks up from prayer, and then back at me. Over a sea of bowed heads I am discovered.
“...Christ... there is what I want and what others want to give me. There is what I am content to receive and what others desire to grant. Allow me the wisdom to bring these two extremes into alignment. Guide my decisions and show me the way to the path I must walk and I will walk it. Lord... just point me in the right direction. I will discover the trail.”
The prayer continues and her eyes walk over my body like I have been gift wrapped and delivered to her doorstep. Which, in some ways, I can certainly see how my garb and this circumstance appears to fit that bill. I am unable to look away from the appraisal because I find myself thinking. I am so lost in thought, actually, that my surroundings fall away and my head tips a little to one side in realization.
Feeling helpless. When I was ill, you said to the friend who was caring for me, “I feel so helpless.” And when life, in general, takes us and spins us 'round, we feel out of control. But there is always something to do. There is no scripture or memory I have ever heard that speaks of Christ doing nothing. There is always something to do... it simply may not be what we desire to do. It is easy, for instance, when someone is ill, to be the one to wrap them in blankets and make them soup. Not so easy to pray for them hard and heart-felt at a great distance, to send them a story, a picture, a funny I-Can-Haz. To impress them with poetry or by cleaning their house. To care for their children (who are wild things) or paint their deck.
I think about how we all seem to like feeling breathless... but none of us like to feel helpless. But isn't it when we feel helpless that we are most likely to turn to Christ? Isn't it when we feel helpless that are are most likely to open up to a new friend and realize how much we are loved? When we are most likely to discover peace?
“'...someday you will leave because my life is complicated and entangled. Someday you will go, but until then I will love you.' And I looked at her and I shook my head. Soundlessly at first, but then, 'You're worth it. I'm not going to make a mistake and pass you up because you aren't simple.'”
When are we most likely to unlock strengths we never knew were there... even though they had been whispering to us all along? When our feet stand on bedrock, when we have reached that rock bottom, that is when Christ equips us with our wings. And I have always been partial to wings.
When we feel helpless, it is the perfect time to sit with Christ and make a list of all the things we could do. The grail is always full and there will never be enough hours in a mortal day to fulfill our every prayer. Helpless simply means, undecided. Undecided simply means you have the opportunity to make a decision. And every decision you make builds your emotional muscle. That vital system that allows you to claim your own faith. To carry your own armor. To see the truth in everything.
“Hello, Angel. I didn't know you were Catholic.”
“I'm not.”
“I see. Another faith then?”
“Yes. I'm a Christian.”
(laughter)
“No offense intended.”
“None taken.” (pause) “Would you like to...?”
“I'm sure I would.”
(smiling)
“But, I don't need to. So no thank you.”
And I leave St. Peter's with Lillian and we eat small sandwiches with brie and drink coffee with cinnamon under a heavy, silver sky. We talk briefly about the rise of the church in pagan England and the structure of redemption and the lack of faith in the self that it all represents. And as we walk back to her car and she stops suddenly and the color drains from her face even as I am watching her... as she grips her chest near her shoulder in two hands and crumbles into my arms even as I am reaching for her... as she calls me Pablo and I answer to his name... as I feel the *helplessness* welling in my chest and spilling from my eyes, down my cheeks, across my eggshell white dress... I know I have a hundred million decisions to make and I make them all. I know I will not lose her now. I decide that I will not lose her. And because of that decision, every other choice falls into place to support that first. I am everything she needs (fast, resourceful, him) and nothing that I want (to scream, to shout, to crumble to the sidewalk with her) and I am utterly *there.*
These are the moments that define us. The helpless ones.
Lord? I'm here.
Baptized in your words, I am breathless.
At my best, I am helpless.
These are our moments.
EJ
