News

Since surgery last Fall, it has taken me some time to rebuild my walking endurance and speed. As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, I now see myself more as a semi-committed waddler than a serious walker. I used to do a fourteen-minute mile. (Yeah, I know. Real impressive to all you runners out there.) Now it is eighteen-minutes…. And if there is the slightest of hills, sometimes a bit more. And if it is too cold, I don’t go out at all. And if it is too warm, I don’t go out either.

It has been a remarkably rich week. The first couple days were spent close to home in Atlanta with longtime sisters in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd movement who are offering their time and energy to mentor a new generation of formation leaders around the U.S. Then, the past last couple of days have been spent at Aquinas Institute of Theology in St. Louis where I met with some of our current CGS students and participated in an alumni reunion.

Lent begins each year with the story of Jesus going into the desert for forty days. We know he fasted and was tempted there. We even have a good sense of what the three temptations were. But we don’t have a very good idea about what happened the remainder of the time.

I realize that might be kind of a quirky thing to spend one’s time wondering about, but (as you might already have guessed) it has been on my mind of late. Forty days is a long time to ponder three temptations.

I’ve been meaning to post for several weeks now, but every time I begin to scripturiate (gosh, I am liking that new term!), the U.S. government does something that knocks the words out of me. It reminds me of the moment in childhood when I fell from the monkey bars at Queeny Park playground and had the wind knocked out of me. I was unable to breathe for a minute, which is a terrifying experience when you are six and don’t even know such a thing is possible. Turns out watching the news at fifty-six can have a similar effect.

I wanted to share with you some lovely news I received yesterday morning following an MRI last week: My brain tumors do not show further growth since the last MRI. The inflammation in the area of the surgery seems diminished. The treatment is working as they hoped. I mean, the little buggers are still hanging out there and likely will be for the rest of my life, but they are not giving me any big problems at present. I’ll have another MRI in two more months. Thank you for all of your prayers!

My friend Ron has introduced me to a new word for this week, as he is prone to do on occasion. It is the word “scripturient.” Just sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Means “having a strong urge to write.” Oooh, I like that and didn’t know there was a word I was missing in my vocabulary until now! I often have a strong urge to write. Not always. But I do take delight in words, and in the act of writing I frequently find that I get clearer about things in my own mind.

Most artwork of hell imagines it as hot. Red devilish figures licked by dancing flames. I tend to think of hell as bitter cold. Always have. It’s part of the reason I’ve sought to live in places like Africa and Guam and Miami for much of my life. This image was reinforced by the weather that much of the nation endured this past weekend. The top of an icy pine broke through the roof above our dining room on Sunday and blocked our driveway, locking us in the house.

I’ve not been my most perky self of late, and in some way this should not come as a surprise. The gray month of January has never been my favorite month, especially after the Christmas tree comes down. But the degree of my blecchhhnnness has rattled even me. Yes, it has to do with watching the news which is bad. Very bad. Yes, it has to do with the weather. But I suspect this January has been particularly rough personally because of the health situation.

It is a new year! Now granted I slept through its arrival, as I’m guessing many of you did, too. Sometimes staying up to midnight just feels like an unreasonable ask these days. But it is a new year nonetheless, and even though it comes without one freaking clue as to how exactly it is going to unfold, there is something beautiful to savor in the newness itself. The “let’s try to jumpstart this engine over again” sentiment. Or the “let’s make a new resolution” decision.

I’ve been looking back over the last couple days of Gospel readings again and there are all kinds of emotions easily imagined within the events described—surprise, joy, anger, uncertainty, probably some sadness. But there is only one emotion that everyone is told to avoid: fear. “Do not be afraid,” Zechariah, Mary, and Joseph are all told. And then later this week, the shepherds: “Do not be afraid.” What’s so bad about being afraid?