Tuesday, April 2, 2013

i will die for my own sins, thanks a lot

Maybe I should learn to shut my mouth 
I am over twenty-five 
And I can't make a name for myself 
Some nights I break down and cry 

And so we ask the risen Jesus, who turns death into life, to change hatred into love, vengeance into forgiveness, war into peace
--Papa Francesco

If you wander past San Luigi dei Francesi, you come upon a small little piazza stuffed to maximum capacity with caffés and restaurants.
Don't eat at any of them.
Put one foot in front of the other one and walk to the middle of the piazza towards a fountain that looks like any other fountain, with an obelisk in the middle of it, because Romans thought that appropriating Egyptian artifacts was a sign of empire or some sort of absurd ancient logic that we've since forgotten, along with the names of all the people who have lived by that fountain these past few millennia.

It's anybody's guess how the angel of doubt laid down
Sand beneath our house, 
sings the sand and lonely band, in a strange new ceremony of nascent renaissance admit sparse little shrubs growing in the cracks and crannies of ruins.
(There is no sand beneath the Pantheon, just to clarify.)

Sit on the marble steps. And don't move.
Listen to the echoes of your feet upon the ground die away.
As the sounds of your past fade, you'll find yourself suddenly present in a sunny moment on that fountain.
Let your guard down.
Turn and look at the man playing the cello.
Don't listen to the music quite yet; let the Sun thaw the snow in your ears and mouth first.
Find something you love about the person you hate.
Sometimes you are separated from the person you love so you don't hurt them; and sometimes you are separated from the person you would hurt so that you can learn to love them.
Maybe you should take that moment to pray the Divine Mercy chaplet, because you have fifteen minutes, and goodness knows you need it.
But that's just a suggestion, albeit a Mom-Suggestion.

Maybe open one ear, and find that the cello music sounds suspiciously like angel music.
If you're looking for your guardian angel, chances are he's sitting right next to you.
He's been fighting all his life--he's a warrior, that one, sets his face to the north wind and never flinches.
But give him just one moment's respite, please.
Still your impatient feet full of inquietud, don't go off chasing clouds or climbing mountains, (at least for another hour or so).
Let the tendrils of the moss grasp your toes and anchor them to the earth.
Your tumbleweed impression is spectacular, that goes without saying; but maybe it's time to take a card from your friend the birch and grow some semblance of roots.

Dazzling is the night for me, sang the thousands of lightbearers, and full of gladness.
If you breathe in one more time, your nostrils will be filled with cello music.
Let the melody fill your mouth.
Turn to your neighbor and tell them
 I love you.

God has already won: That’s the message of Easter.
--George Weigel

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