No one lives alone. No one sins alone. No one is saved alone. The lives of others continually spill over into mine: in what I think, say, do, and achieve. And conversely, my life spills over into that of others: for better and for worse. So my prayer for another is not something extraneous to that person, something external, not even after death. In the interconnectedness of Being, my gratitude to the other — my prayer for him — can play a small part in his purification.
Pope Benedict XVI "Spe Salvi" (48)
Gregory of Narek (c.944-1010), Armenian monk and poet
Book of prayers, n°18 (SC 78, p. 123 rev.)
"There was a time when I was not, and you created me.
I had not prayed, yet
you made me.
I had not yet come into the light, yet you saw me.
I had
not appeared, yet you took pity on me.
I had not invoked you, yet you cared
for me.
I had not signaled, yet you looked at me.
I had not craved
your pardon, yet you had mercy on me.
I had not breathed a word, yet you
heard me.
I had not sighed, yet you listened.
Even though you
knew what would now happen to me
you did not despise me.
Even after
considering with your foreseeing gaze
the offenses of the sinner that I
am,
you nonetheless formed me.
And even now may I, whom you
created,
whom you saved,
who have been the object of such care,
not be lost forever by the wounds of sins
aroused in me by the
Accuser!...
Bound, paralyzed,
bent double like the afflicted
woman,
my poor soul is unable to stand upright.
It cleaves to the
earth beneath the weight of sin
because of Satan's heavy bonds...
Incline towards me, Merciful One,
poor fallen, thinking tree.
Make
me flower again in beauty and splendor,
I who am withered and dry,
according to the divine words spoken by the holy prophet (Ez 17,22-24)...
You who alone are our Protector
deign to cast your glance at me
out of the concern of your inexpressible love...
and, out of nothing,
you will create within me
light itself. (cf. Gn 1,3)."
"Let us be slow to judge. — Each one sees things from his own point of view, as his mind, with all its limitations, tells him, and through eyes that are often dimmed and clouded by passion.
Moreover, as happens with those modernist painters, the outlook of certain people is so unhealthily subjective that they dash off a few random strokes and assure us that they represent our portrait, our conduct.
Of what little worth are the judgments of men! Don't judge without sifting your judgment in prayer"
LORD, help me to be slow to judge (slow to anger and quick in mercy, as YOU are); help me to thoroughly sift in prayer any judgments I may be tempted to pass (against others and myself).
She was very involved with her Church. She and another lady helped the Benedictines raise money to buy & build St. Andrew's Priory in Valyermo. She and her husband also became Oblates with the monks at St. Andrew's, which is where she will be interred. Ijust learned yesterday (a few hours before her death) that she was president of a ladies' organization which intended to bring about reform to the Catholic Church in the late '50s / early '60s (pre-Vatican II). Because of their work and ideas, Pope John XXIII invited my grandmother to lunch (!!!!). Due to an unfortunate mix up with some Dominicans, she stood the Pope up, about which he eventually wrote her (to more or less say "Scusi??"). It worked out, though, and both of my grandparents were in attendance at many of the Vatican II conferences (!!!!). She was very proud to see that all of the reforms her group recommended/supported were instituted in Vatican II's reforms.
Grandma also loved art. She loved art. She was a volunteer docent at one of the LA art museums (I think it was LACMA, but I certainly can't promise you that). The house is still filled with her art books. She also loved architecture and interior design. Her pride and joy was the Brentwood house, which she basically designed herself. This is the house that was up the street from Maureen O'Hara, just up Sunset from UCLA (where my grandfather was teaching radiology). This is the house where she raised her teens, hosted huge parties (the legendary dancing-on-the-piano parties), and took calls from bands trying to book gigs at "Sara's Living Room" (poor guys didn't realize that it was an actual living room). I mistakenly called Sara's Living Room Sara's Basement, which led to the discovery that the basement was overrun with Ben and John's beatnik friends.
In my lifetime, the Senior Os lived in two houses - one in LA and one (more recently) in OC. The LA house is where I lost my first tooth (and second), where I met Deirdre and Barbara (who christened me "Egg Salad," for reasons I cannot remember -- do you guys remember that??), where Connor gashed a deep hole in his knee (ruining the game), where we climbed orange trees, where I cracked the bridge of my nose too regularly, where I learned the social value of being able to sit at a piano and lead the room in song, where there were feasts and parties and grandchildren sleeping on patio furniture cushions in every room. From this house we went on grand adventures to places like the La Brea Tar Pits and the art museum(s). We learned all about the color wheel and complementary colors. We painted and colored and drew. We read books and memorized poetry. My very favorite Grandma O poem is The Tale of Custard the Dragon, by Ogden Nash. We read plenty of books, especially Amelia Bedelia, Madeline, and Fletcher mysteries. (That reminds me of how much Grandma loved mysteries, especially with her girl Lansbury.)
The OC house is where we got to start exploring the O'library on our own, where we would watch the sun set over the ocean and sit in the jacuzzi, where we would play nerdy imagination games with the cousins or dress up in Grandma's (truly fierce) '50s wardrobe, where we did the Tom Cruise sock slide down the hall (though he really had no part of it). From this house, we went on grand adventures to places like the park, the community pool, the beach, and the fancy pants Newport Beach malls. This is where I first watched "West Side Story," which has basically since then been The Movie to Watch at the Senior Os (along with "The Music Man"). It's the house where I have watched many (many many) golf tournaments and rooted on many UCLA football games. This was my stop-over or partial trip home when I was in college. For some (fortuitous) reason, I spent Holy Saturday there my sophomore year at UCLA. I went with Grandma and Grandpa to the Easter Vigil, which was one of the biggest catalysts in what I call my "conversion" (in as much as a cradle-Catholic can convert ...to Catholicism).
Grandma was pretty quirky for as long as I remember, but she first started showing clear signs of Alzheimer's about 15 years ago (half of my life; all of Michael's). I always thought it was (objectively) interesting that her mind tended to go back to her youth, when she was engaged to my grandpa. It was a hard journey. Last October, Susan (& Eileen,
Saturday morning, I awoke on Grandma's couch, filled an "I Love My Grandma" mug with coffee, and got to sit with her for much of the day. I'm very thankful I got that time. Michael and I said our good byes that afternoon, and about an hour later she passed away with her husband, her eldest daughter, two sons, and her 2nd eldest granddaughter at her side. I'm sure by now she has had several meals with Pope John XXIII, squeezed Padraic, Sara, and her family enough to make up for the years without them, and come to know all of the wonderful things her earthly mind missed lately. I do love my Grandma, and I miss her dearly already; however, I am so thankful to have such an advocate in Heaven, and I look forward to feasting with her at every Mass until I can join her in the communion of saints.
