This
past weekend I felt some of the worst pain I've ever felt in my life, and as
someone who had cancer, appendicitis and various infections in remote, Third World villages without medical care, I am not unfamiliar with pain.
I've
been dealing with a lot of medical stuff the past few years. In the midst of
all that a new symptom developed. It didn't seem immediately terminal so in
between all the surgeries and deaths this new symptom didn't receive the
attention it might have received otherwise. A couple of doctors ordered some
tests, but nothing was determinative.
More
doctor visits and tests, I am confident, will provide me with a diagnosis and
treatment. Meanwhile, all I can think about this morning is how hurt my body
is, and how worried I am about what happens next.
But,
my goal is to start every day in Lent with this blog. What card should turn up
but the knight of coins. This is good.
The
knight of coins is boring, plodding, and reliable. No flashes of inspiration
from him. He will, unlike St. Francis of Assisi, never receive the stigmata. He
will not, unlike St. Teresa of Avila, ever experience God as ecstasy.
The
knight of coins is the guy who shows up, every day, and does what needs doing.
He's the boy who, in high school, the girls aren't all that interested in. The
girls' mothers say, "He's the guy you should date. Not the bad boy. Not
the captain of the football team. Not the sensitive, beautifully androgynous
poet. Him. Mr. Reliable." High school girls are constitutionally deaf to
these words from the more knowledgeable matrons and crones.
Yesterday,
when the pain was really bad, I hated God. God, I suspect, is underwhelmed. He
knows that I am going to show up again today.
That's
the knight of coins part of faith. Showing up every day to pray, to apply
Christian teaching to your life, no matter how much the world is going to hell.
My
mother was like this. She also hated and cursed God at times. Certainly when
her two sons died in the prime of their lives. But she showed up, to clean the
church, to staff the booths at the annual carnival, to bring food and to
deliver bags of clothes to neighbors who needed it – it always astounded me how
she managed to turn up people who were even poorer than we were. My mother was
very fond of 2 Timothy 4:7 "I have fought the good fight, I have finished
the race, I have kept the faith."
As a
Slovak, that is, as someone born in a cottage built by hand by her father, at
the edge of vast fields, plunked down in a tumultuous part of the world, she
knew that just showing up is the better part of the fight. No matter what is
going on, the cow needs milking and the crops need tending.
I
don't have a cow. I act out my inner Christian knight of coins by resolving to
pray the rosary every day, no matter whether I love God or not, no matter
whether I feel inspired or not, no matter whether my own personal "sea of
faith" "Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled" or whether
my own faith is sounding "its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
retreating, to the breath of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear and
naked shingles of the world," as Matthew Arnold wrote in "Dover
Beach."
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