Bulletin Column: In My Heart, Teach Me Wisdom

And the apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith.” The Lord replied, “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you would say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you. – Luke 17:5-6

Perhaps it speaks to the state of our faith that we don’t see many trees marching seaward these days. Can you imagine? A forest on holiday: the stalwart oak sauntering in silence, long limbs swinging stiffly at his sides; the loose, looping gait of a free-spirited willow with her face toward the sun, long tresses blowing in the breeze; a plump pine and bony birch whispering about the weather as they pass; and a gabbing gaggle of young aspen bringing up the rear.

St. Matthew makes the mulberry tree a mountain (Matthew 17:20)—so little faith to do so great a thing.

Elsewhere in scripture, the Lord acclaims a childlike faith. Saints preserve us! The ceaseless, soaking rain of Christmas weekend would have been feet of snow if my youngest had her way—and our roof would have been creaking beneath the weight of reindeer, a sleigh, a red-suited saint, and a world’s-worth of Christmas cheer loaded for swift delivery.

Or perhaps it speaks to God’s foresight that our faith, however small, is tempered with wisdom. True faith is in the Lord, so that prayer leads to surrender to His will and trust in His goodness. As our faith grows—from speck to granule to seed—we recognize the Lord’s providence more and more, and push for our own way less and less.

That is important, lest each of us demand the winds of the world blow our own way, and storms result. Commanding a mountain to move may end in avalanches and earthquakes.
  My father’s health is failing. This has been the primary test of faith for the past year or more. Parkinson’s and dementia have taken more of his mobility and mind, and his body is rebelling too. Just since Thanksgiving, the changes are stark and sobering. Mom has more in-home help and support now, but the reality that he is fading weighs heavily on all of us—even him.

The temptation is strong to ask what more I should be doing. If you had faith the size of a mustard seed… Would his tremor cease and his thoughts and vision clear? Would his body be restored and his strength return? Nothing is impossible for God. One more Chaplet, one more Rosary, one more Mass. Maybe if I knelt instead of paced as I prayed?

What if I’m not doing enough? What if it’s my fault?

I have told my mother that God’s language is not anxiety or shame, yet here I am, searching the dark corners of my mind for a key that only I possess to unlock the Lord’s mercy and healing.

I know that’s not the truth. I know I have prayed, with helpless hands and a humble heart, for my father to be restored this side of heaven. My heart reassures me that God is working a bigger miracle than the healing of one man, but in my sorrow, I want less.

I want my Dad back.
 
At the early Mass the Sunday before Christmas, Father Daly preached about the importance of moving out of our heads and into our hearts in prayer, in order to ponder God’s action in our lives. The angels—both holy and fallen—can work with our intellect, so as long as we are in our heads, we risk listening to the wrong voices. But the Blesséd Virgin, our example and exemplar, ponders all things in her heart—that inner tabernacle, the Holy of Holies, a firelit space of encounter where evil cannot come uninvited.

There I hear a whisper—from a different voice than the hopeless accusations in my head: “Be at peace. All of you are beloved and safe in My hands. He who made the promise is trustworthy. Be at peace.”

And in that silent stillness, I can breathe.