My Sacred Ground

Today, as I left from my Just 10 walk, I decided it was time to pray and ask for something specific like, "God send money, ASAP."  Part of me is embarrassed to admit that I pray all the time, often on my walks. Although, I bet some of you have already figured this out.  I've always been very protective of my relationship with the Big G. for two reasons.

1.) Developing a close relationship with God was my way of surviving, the relationship with God that was being forced on me from outside. Confused?  I was.  My poor mother was blessed and cursed with me as her first child.  I was spirited and full of scathingly brilliant ideas which I often tried in real time and space.  She tried to control my behavior by telling me how bad I was and how God and His angels were keeping tabs on me.  They had a giant book filled with bright white pages and every time I did something bad, they'd make an ugly black mark.  My book was said to be covered with marks. This was the stuff of nightmares to an imaginative child.  I soon coped with the fear by finding the child, Jesus out in the cow pasture.  He was the best imaginary friend a girl ever had.  We often played for hours. 

Little J. assured me that my mom had it all wrong.  She didn't mean to be so scary.  She was scary because she was scared.  He told me that a lot of people misunderstand God.  God isn't about fear and doing things because one is afraid not to.  God is about love.  I thought Little J. was really smart.  Part of me believed him but it took a long time before I was able to believe him with all my heart.  I spent years motivated by fear.  The memory of these early conversations with God have never left me.  When I no longer saw my imaginary friend, he remained only a thought away.  I protected my relationship with God by not telling anyone.  I didn't want anyone to take Him away.  Please note, I use the masculine pronoun because it's easy for me.  Personally, I know that God is He, She and It but it just doesn't sound as nice to the good Catholic girl in me.

2.)  My relationship with God has always seemed a bit abnormal.  My God has a sense of humor, remarkably like mine.  It is often irreverent, counter cultural and probably more than a little odd.  I've believed that everyone carries a piece of God deep in their hearts.  When in the first grade, Sister Some One said that, "If you're not Catholic, you'll go to Hell."  I talked it over with God and we concluded that she was sadly mistaken.  I told God I was worried about those Hindus in India who we were told were worshiping cows.  God laughed and said that they have just as good a chance of getting into heaven as the next guy.  That worked for me.  Over the years, I've met agnostics who are better Christians than most Christians I know.  I don't know if I've ever met an atheist.  Maybe, I need to expand my circle.  Oh, and as far as Sister Someone was concerned, by second grade Vatican II had us switch to coloring pictures of saints and talking about peace and love.  No more memorization of black and white answers.  God was now found in a box of crayolas.

So this morning, I pray and I ask for something specific, "Help, please send MONEY."  I read recently that you will never get anything from God if you don't ask, so ask I did.  I heard God laugh.  Over the years, I've learned not to ask God for much.  He usually says, "No, I've got something better in mind."  Occasionally, I've spent years pouting over that answer, trying to give God the silent treatment.  God is patient if He is anything.  He always waits out my hissy fits.  This morning God asks, "What happened to "My will be done? You know I'm not Santa Claus."  God is referring to my Santa Claus theory.  Long ago, I observed that some people treat God like He's some Heavenly Santa, just waiting to pull their request out of His big red bag.  It was always too simple a theory for a complicated me.  I was sure God was even more complicated and that my approaching God and sitting on his lap asking for things wasn't going to fly.  He's got me.

"Okay", I say and switch the channel.  I hear Paul McCartney sing the chorus from "Let It Be."  "Very funny, God. It plays over and over while I keep walking.  I spot a t-shirt on the side of the trail.  It looks like an XLG.  I'm hoping it might fit my significant other.  It's torn almost in two but it will make a good rag.  The image of a temple curtain torn in two on Good Friday pops into my head.  "Geez!"  I sigh, "always with these scriptural allusions."  I smile inside at my Yiddish inflection.  Soon, I meet my well-groomed dog walker.  The dogs remember me and strain against their leases to come say hi.  I take pity on the man who is trying to gently get them to keep walking.  I don't stop even though I just want to play with the puppies.  "Let It Be, Let It Be."

From behind me I hear the whirl of bike sprockets.  My Mormon missionaries with neckties are here to greet me again.  I don't stop but say,  "Hi, you two stop me almost every morning."  They reply, "How are you today?"  I say, "Great" and keep walking.  I tell them, "Keep up the good work.  I'm sure there is some one out there who needs to talk to you."  They get the message and pedal on.  Inside, I feel a little sorry for them.  They don't have an easy job.   They've gotten to be such a familiar sight on the trail that if I don't see them, I feel that I'm missing something.  I remember that I've got to get back to begging for God's help but  familiar faces keep meeting me.  The couple who walk together.  I swear that he must have been a farmer who sold his farm and retired on the money.  He's got a small, neat house in the suburbs.  He likes to go fishing.  Then there is the man with his elderly but spry mother.  They walk every day and look so much alike.  There is the woman with the short hair cut.  She always wears the same work out clothes.  They look expensive.  There are a couple of familiar runners, ear buds pumping sound into their heads.  They don't smile or even acknowledge the presence of other humans on the trail.   For a moment, I envy their concentration, then realize they are missing out on connecting with their fellow travelers.  I feel sorry for them instead.

God interrupts.  I forgot He was still on the line.  "Did you see Me in their faces?" He asks.  I pause, "Yes, yes, I did."  I give up controlling my thoughts and trying to focus on praying. I'm not doing a good job.  I decide to spend some time just listening.  There are few words in this space that I've carved in my soul but I know that God is there.  I feel happy despite all the uncertainty in my life.  Whether or not, God sends money isn't important.  I decide that I need to write about this despite my own hesitancy to put so much of my prayer life on the line for all to see.  I'd rather have my big bloomers flapping on a clothes line out in the front yard.  God tries to tell me,  "It's no big deal."  I really don't to talk about my "sacred ground.

My sacred ground isn't very pretty.  It's an abandoned field in a bad part of the city.  It's covered with dirt and gravel.  Patches of weeds are everywhere.  There is a lot of broken glass. Street people use parts of it for a restroom.  Off to the side, lies the rusty pieces of an old bike.   The sprocket has spokes bent in strangely elegant angles.  This is the place where my God intersects with my world.  It's not pretty.  It seems to lack potential.  I'm more than a bit embarrassed by how it all looks and yet, I don't want anyone to take it away.  There is a beauty here, when I remember how to find it.  In the very back of this abandoned, empty lot there is a small corner with a view, a view into something beautiful beyond description.  The only way to catch a glimpse of it is to make my way through the weeds and broken glass, past the bike sprocket and beyond.