Little flower

Baby E did well for the first half-hour of the funeral service, but then he just couldn't keep quiet, so I headed out to the lobby and front of the church. I let him walk around, explore, be a toddler. What I discovered amidst the holy water and pamphlets were two lovely, handmade quilted standards. I hadn't noticed them amidst the crush of people entering the church. One portrayed St. Francis Xavier (appropriately enough) and the other was emblazoned with the message: "Receive Christ as a Little Child."

That seemed incredible, considering my thoughts of the last week. I read it as meaning that Christ is a little child, but some Googling has led me to realize that it usually means I should be like a little child.

You can also see that it represents a nun with a handful of roses and says "Saint Therese." Being ignorant of Christian saints, I had to look this up.

St. Therese of Lisieux lived in 19th century France, where she became a Carmelite nun at the age of 14. Before dying at 24, she wrote an autobiography that lays out her spiritual ideas, her "little way." This is also called spiritual childhood, a "spirit of childhood in all our dealings with God," according to Pope Pius XI.

John F. Russell, O.Carm., S.T.D. writes that "Relationship to the child Jesus emphasizes the humanity of Christ and suggests a sense of dependence, poverty, trust, and wonder. The child Jesus theme is found in the sermons of St. Bernard of Clairvaux and in writings of the Franciscan tradition."

Called the Little Flower, St. Therese used nature as a metaphor for the relationship with the Divine. She promised that, after her death, "I will let fall a shower of roses," and since then, many have seen her blessings in the form of roses. She wrote of flowers and nature:

"I still feel the profound and poetic impressions which were born in my soul at the sight of fields enameled with corn-flowers and all types of wild flowers. Already I was in love with the wide-open spaces. Space and the gigantic fir trees, the branches sweeping down to the ground, left in my heart an impression similar to the one I experience still today at the sight of nature."

"Jesus deigned to teach me this mystery. He set before me the book of nature; I understood how all the flowers He has created are beautiful, how the splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the Lily do not take away the perfume of the little violet or the delightful simplicity of the daisy. I understood that if all flowers wanted to be roses, nature would lose her springtime beauty, and the fields would no longer be decked out with little wild flowers. And so it is in the world of souls, Jesus' garden. He willed to create great souls comparable to lilies and roses, but He has created smaller ones and these must be content to be daisies or violets destined to give joy to God's glances when He looks down at His feet. Perfection consists in doing His will, in being what He wills us to be."

"Consider the oaks of our countryside, how crooked they are; they thrust their branches to right and left, nothing checks them so they never reach a great height. On the other hand, consider the oaks of the forest, which are hemmed in on all sides, they see light only up above, so their trunk is free of all those shapeless branches which rob it of the sap needed to lift it aloft. It sees only heaven, so all its strength is turned in that direction, and soon it attains a prodigious height. In the religious life the soul like the young oak is hemmed in on all sides by its rule. All its movements are hampered, interfered with by the other trees.... But it has light when it looks toward heaven, there alone it can rest its gaze, never upon anything below, it need not be afraid of rising too high."

"And just as in nature all the seasons are arranged in such a way as to make the humblest daisy bloom on a set day, in the same way, everything works out for the good of each soul."

As a pagan and nature-lover (the same thing?), I find those writing to be beautiful and inspiring. But most meaningful to me is her focus on love. "What matters in life," St. Therese wrote, "is not great deeds, but great love."

That's an idea I can definitely appreciate. I was never and still am not a career-first woman. From childhood on, I was much more concerned with the relationships in my life, and I have long said that I wanted my legacy to be my family, not some external achievements.

Isn't it interesting how our paths present us with the messages that we need to hear? Thank you, Baby E, for taking me into the lobby of the church. Your restlessness is a blessing to me.

Where?

In the comments to the last post, my totally cool sister Alyss asked, "Where do you already feel closest to the divine?"

I want to start by explaining that I haven't lost my faith. I still believe as strongly as ever in the divine. If anything, my faith is stronger now, because I have less direct experience to go by.

Can I continue with the metaphor of the sun? When the Goddess became an active part of my life at 26 years old, it was like the cloud cover cleared, and I finally felt the sun. I easily could feel her warmth and light, it was all around me all the time. Sometime around four years ago, the clouds moved back. I still know the sun is there, intellectually, and I can see the evidence of Her existence in the world (there is light to see by, the plants are growing). But I don't have that visceral experience of Her presence.

What happened four years ago? Well, I stopped actively practicing. We moved to a Small Town from The Big City, and I couldn't find any other pagans. For the first few months, we tried attending the Unitarian Universalist church, but gave that up for both social and liturgical reasons. At first I didn't miss practicing, I still felt confident in Her presence in my life, even if I didn't feel Her directly. I knew that pursuing motherhood was Her choice for me, and I followed that path. It was only deep into that decision, once the road became rocky, that I realized I couldn't seem to find her within me any more. A few times, I tried to make more of an effort, but I was busy and couldn't find the time. And there was little reward.

During the adoption process, we felt surrounded by church-y types always spouting about God's plans, and it felt important to distance myself from them. While I knew the Goddess wanted us to be parents, I didn't believe that she had one, specific child planned for us. I closed my heart to all the talk about God - I just couldn't face the idea of a God who plans for women to make heart-wrenching choices and for children to lose their birthfamilies.

It's interesting that I felt the Goddess so strongly when I lived in cities, but don't now that I live in the country, surrounded by nature. I feel as if she guided me here, where she wanted me to be, then figured she could leave me to figure out the rest on my own.

When I lived in cities, I found the Goddess in nature - the herbs growing wild out of the sidewalk, the huge trees in the park, the moon rising full between the buildings. Now, Her works are everywhere - from our little patch of backyard to the rolling green hills that surround our town. I can actually see the sky here and am much closer to the cycles of the moon and the sun. For half the year, we eat fresh vegetables and fruits, bought from farmers that we know and love. But none of these things seem to be filled with magic, rather they seem quotidian, common.

I don't have much time to enjoy the hobbies - gardening, cooking, knitting - that once connected me with her. (Just one more way that this job is killing my soul.)

If there is one place now that I feel most alive, it is with Baby E. From the miracle of his presence in our lives to the joy of watching him grow and develop, he is an angel, sent from heaven. He is a daily marvel.

I know that motherhood was the next step on my spiritual path, but now that I'm here, it just doesn't feel like what I expected. It's no grand ephiphany, it's a day-to-day
church
grind [I totally didn't mean to put the word church there, an interesting typo, don't you think?] of mundane details, punctuated by bursts of overwhelming love. It is also a profound call to gratitude - can you imagine how incredible the woman is who gave this miracle to us?

However, despite the boogers and the board books, motherhood has changed me. I think differently now about my career, my community, my home, my marriage, and my self. These shifts feel so tectonic that I haven't really been able to articulate them.

I know, though, that my current job situation isn't sustainable. It simply doesn't work to be away from home 10 hours a day, to only see my baby for 2 hours before he goes to sleep.

And, because my son has African heritage, I also knew I needed to reach out to the black community in our town - and what better way to do that than attend a church? So in this way too, it is Baby E. who has propelled me back to God.