But you know, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”

It actually began a little before Lent. At first I blamed it on the new mattress; I was just sleeping wrong. That’s what was causing the pain in my neck, the tingles in my hands. But the tingles became pain, and tingles started in new places. After a couple of weeks, I screwed up my courage and spoke to my rehab doctor. He ordered a diagnostic test called an EMG. The test was scheduled for Friday, Feb. 29, the third Friday in Lent. That turned out to be very appropriate.

One of the dubious blessings of being a librarian is that I know how to go to Medline Plus to research any medical condition, test, or test result my doctors tell me about. So I found out that an EMG involved electrodes and needles. Oh, boy.

I went in on Friday morning with a metal-free bra and my deodorant in my purse. I took off my crucifix while waiting, but didn’t think about taking off my wedding band (or I would have left it at home). I don’t usually remove it, so taking it off and putting it on the exam room counter gave me a little extra feeling that things were wrong.

The doctor who administered the test was very nice and explained each step. She applied conducting gel to my arm and “zapped” areas on my arms and hands with a little device, and made pen marks on me in various places, measuring here and there. The article I had read didn’t mention a topical shock, so I cheerfully jumped to the conclusion that the needles had been replaced by this little device.

Not so.

Nest came the needles. Electrified needles. She would poke me in an ink mark, and then turn on a current and ask me to move my hand, arm, or wrist in a given direction. Which hurt. The doctor told me that I could stop the test at any time if the pain was too much, and because I could, I didn’t have to.

“If you can sue this pain for good, God, please take it,” I thought, when it wasn’t too bad. When it got worse and my thoughts were less articulate, I just blew out a long breath and prayed in my head, “For the Holy Souls,” and, “Help.”

You know it’s bad when the doctor apologizes. All in all, the shocking, poking, marking and zapping took between an hour and an ninety minutes.

Tomorrow it’s off to the doctor to get an interpretation of the results, and to begin a plan of action. Having read the excellent book The Gift of Pain by Dt. Paul Brand and Philip Yancey, I know that it’s good that I have this pain, that I’m being warned that my body is damaged, and I need to change things.  I know, too, that a little fasting from computer fun (less Chuzzle, more reading) is good as a Lenten discipline. Still… this is a challenge. Trusting that this is being permitted by a God who loves me more than I can imagine is a tougher sell.

Our homily this past weekend was fascinating, but uncomfortable. Father pointed out that heaven will be a kind of eternal liturgy.

“That’s going to be hard on those of you for whom an hour is now too long to pray,” he said. Ow! I was wondering whether my pastor might have been inspired by the late Christian rock singer Keith Green, who wrote the tract Will You Be Bored in Heaven? Or perhaps it’s just that the same Spirit encouraged them to write about this common human problem– a lack of appreciation for the Mass.

It must be, after all, the ultimate case of “familiarity breeds contempt,” if you give it a moment’s thought. The holy, almighty living God becomes truly present, Jesus is our food. And we skinny out before the closing hymn to snag a donut or catch the game.

WHAT ARE WE THINKING?? OR FAILING TO THINK??

It is rare that I leave before the end of the recessional hymn, but I have to admit that I like to go grab a pastry. And I do want to see my friends in the parish. So I don’t spend the time in prayer after the Mass that I would spend if I were a little less worldly.

One way in which I’m blessed is coming to the Catholic Church after belonging to groups that routinely had worship services longer than an hour. So I’m not burdened with the expectation some people seem to have that a Mass longer than an hour is actually sinful. I won’t tell you that I never get fidgety, but it never occurs to me to be offended when the Mass “runs over”.

I think we’re really cheating ourselves when we check our watches and decide that the best liturgy is a brief liturgy.  Please folks, let us practice for heaven by immersing ourselves in loving God.

I find connecting my faith to my work extremely difficult. There is, in fact, a Catholic Library Association, but I haven’t found much in its materials that articulates of distinctive features of Catholic librarianship. Is there such a thing as a distinctively Catholic approach to any secular work? I find myself musing much about this. It’s easy enough to imagine how Jesus might minister, or even heal or teach. But is there a way Jesus would apply Generally Accepted Accounting Principles? Or use the Library of Congress Classification system? Or weld a support beam?

From what little accurate information I’ve read, I gather this is what the apostolate of Opus Dei is all about.

What do you, my half-dozen (maybe) readers think?

If your new job is the result of a promotion, you may know Fred quite well, and be alternately flattered, amused, and annoyed at being called “the new Fred.” Fred may have tough shoes to fill, or you may consider that a loving God would never unleash more than one Fred on the universe. But at most places I have worked, the tag sticks for some time. You know you are at last bringing your own style and contributions to the job when you are no longer “the new Fred” but simply yourself.

Poor St. Matthias. All we really know about him is that he was the replacement for Judas Iscariot, the betrayer of Jesus Christ. In today’s first Mass reading, we learn all there is to be known (at least in the Bible) about Matthias. He stood in the difficult position of being “the new Judas.” Let’s hope no one was insensitive enough to call him that, but it must have been on everyone’s mind, somehow.

Did Matthias feel guilty to be given an honored place only available because of another’s death? Was he afraid he might also fall? Did he go out of his way to avoid all comparisons? Was he relieved when mission responsibilities took him away from the early community of believers, to a fresh start?

We won’t know, this side of heaven. But we do know that he took his difficult position and filled it so well that the Church throughout the world celebrates his life on this day.

So now, some people have found the peg on which they will hang the whole explanation of his anger, the shootings, the death. We now try to explain great evils in medical or sociological terms, and here is the term we can use — although inaccurately — to explain this. And because of this, millions of people with autistic-spectrum disorders will suffer additional, undeserved discrimination and suspicion. And then there are the people who, in a less medical age, we would have called simply “odd” or (if they were wealthy) “eccentric”. How many of them will now be looked at a bit more askance? And will that additional isolation cause further damage to the more fragile ones among them?

As usual, Wheelie Catholic has a thoughtful post about this.

In addition to the wheelchair, which is easy to see, I have additional neurological problems, which show up as being gauche, disorganized, and moody. I tend to let people think of me as “odd” rather than give them a medical label, because of all the baggage that comes with it. I CERTAINLY don’t want my co-workers wondering if someday I’ll be a shooter.

All together now: it’s not about a diagnostic label; it’s about the sin that damages us all, and the choice to embrace darkness — or no longer to fight it — that one man made. Yes, there are societal questions, legal questions, etc., to be considered. But none of them is the sole solution. And the ultimate responsibility is with Cho, not with “autism”.

Even for those not directly involved, the effects of the shooting will endure. Pray for healing, and as best you can, pray also for the shooter, who is in the hands of God.

Events like these — (and how sad it is that I can actually write “events like these”!) underscore the benefits and burdens of electronic communication. Here in St. Blog’s Parish, and elsewhere, posts and messages blossom as soon as an event begins to unfold. Bits of eyewitness testimony mingle with rumor, offers of assistance, links to stories posted in a rush by news agencies correcting their stories on the fly.

Already, if you look at the comment spaces under the news stories, you see people second-guessing administrators’ decisions, speculating about terrorist connections, offering prayers and curses.

In a way, this interconnectivity makes more apparent a spiritual reality we tend to ignore. Scripture and the Catechism alike underline that, not only are we in the Church the one Body of Christ, but creation itself is affected by sin and redemption.

Paradoxically, these virtual worlds also promote alienation; without remembering that you are a real person of flesh & feeling reading these words, I can be flip, or biting, or focused on winning my argument rather than respecting you.

Oh, this is all repetition of things that have been said over and over. I suppose I think if I talk about it long enough, I’ll understand why.

Perhaps it’s best for me to stop now, and remember that the Church calls evil itself a mystery.

Kol od balevav penima
Nefesh yehudi homiya
Ulfatey mizrakh kadima
Ayin leTziyon tzofiya

Od lo avda tikvateynu
Hatikvah bat shnot alpayim
Lihyot am khofshi beartzeynu
Eretz Tziyon vi’Yerushalayim

English translation of Hatikvah (according to Encyclopedia Judaica):
As long as deep in the heart
The soul of a Jew yearns,
And towards the East
An eye looks to Zion

Our hope is not yet lost
The hope of two thousand years.
To be a free people in our land
The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Life triumphant in the literal midst of death.

Listen, pray, weep.

I love Big Arm Woman. She is a marshmallow in a cynic mask.

But I didn’t get to hear the story of the woman taken in adultery. And I love that story.

I don’t remember where or from whom I first heard these thoughts, but they don’t originate with me, I’m just recording them.

They only bring the woman to Jesus. Somehow, even though she was “caught in the act” as some translations say, the man has disappeared into the mists. Or faded into the crowd. Or picked up a rock.

Maybe that’s what Jesus writes in the sand: “Where is the man?”

Or maybe he’s writing a list of commandments. Or names of sinners. John doesn’t tell us.

Whatever happens, it causes the men to drop their stones, and leave, the oldest first, down to the youngest. And isn’t that an interesting detail? Did they give up sooner because they had lived longer, had better memories, more regrets, deeper compassion?

Although I realize it isn’t remotely accurate, I always picture an ocean wave wiping away the markings, clearing away the record of sins, as the woman walks away, a little dazed, having evaded death and discovered Life.

Ocean waves, salty, like tears. Watering the desert.

I wasn’t actually surprised to see this, since I have a tangential connection to the Deaf community, and have spent a little time at Gallaudet University, the capital of Deaf culture. Disappointed, but not surprised.

The Deaf activists quoted here aren’t unique, alas. I’m reminded of something that happened back when the Americans With Disabilities Act was being implemented. As the supporting regulations were being drafted, the definition of “people with disabilities” turned out to include people with HIV and AIDS.

Some HIV activists didn’t like HIV status being defined as a disability; they didn’t want to be lumped in with paraplegics, people with cognitive delays, blind or Deaf people. Some disabled people didn’t want “blameless” disabled people lumped in with HIV-positive people. (The issue of HIV-positive infants, who have no “blame” but original sin, or whether people should be protected by the law if they became disabled in less-than-innocent ways, such as people who were shot by police, smoked themselves out of vital organs, or incurred head injury whilst drunk, was not addressed.)

HIV status is included in the ADA today (for the little it’s worth!), and so are a number of other conditions which, it could be argued, people bring upon themselves. You might think that’s a bad thing, a good thing, or just a thing, I don’t much care.

What disturbs me is the human tendency to set ourselves apart, to say, “I thank you that I am not like other men,” instead of being willing to be lumped in with the unworthy. To admit that WE ARE in this together, in misery or suffering or strength.

Justice and redemption are not zero-sum propositions. If my getting what I think I should have hurts you, something is wrong, either in my claim, or your sense of injury, or both.