When did you first understand the meaning of love?

Until the year I turned fifty-three, I could have written this essay with any of several
vignettes drawn from the myriad of loving relationships I have been blessed with – from
the random sheer luck of my incredible parents and my witty, forthright and loyal
siblings; to my soul mate of a husband, my four exquisitely unique and talented children,
my lovely large lots of extended family and my magical circle of goddess girlfriends.
There are so many loving lessons I’ve learned from all of these amazing relationships.
But I’m a late bloomer, and it wasn’t until the year I turned fifty-three that I discovered
how to plug into the immense source of universal love. My comprehension of the
meaning of love has expanded exponentially since my discovery.
My “aha” moment took a couple of years to come to fruition. When I was forty-nine I
volunteered at my church for Eucharistic Adoration, requiring me to “guard” the
Sacristry an hour every week. Participating in this ceremony appealed to me, with the
incense and the monstrance (a magnificent golden vessel that protectively exposes the
consecrated host); with the beauty of the angled rows of votives rising up in front of the
monstrance, and the unexpected delight of having the entire church all to myself. It was a
different way to make contact with the wellspring of grace from the usual Mass on
Sunday morning. And I had another motive for volunteering. I wanted to add
meditation to my routine. I was working out and flossing regularly, my kids were
flourishing, and my twenty-one year relationship with my husband was satisfying
intellectually as well as physically. Overall I was feeling pretty darn enlightened. Next: I
wanted to reap the physiological benefits of a regular meditation practice. It had proved
to be an elusive luxury to try to add to my hectic schedule. And when I did make time to
meditate, I didn’t “get it”. Clearing out the chatter in my head seemed impossible.
Perhaps I just wasn’t wired for meditation? So I made an appointment for prayer and
hoped it would turn into meditation.
Every week I showed up for my post, reading my prayer books and reciting my rosary. I
memorized “My Pilgrimage with Mary”, ruminating on the five sacred shrines of her life.
I treasured (and had to repeatedly mend) my Nana’s “True Devotion to the Blessed
Virgin” from Our Lady’s Book. I prayed to Angels (especially my guardian angel). I
read and re-read the eulogies of loved ones I missed, trying to keep a connection with my
personal angels. Occasionally, if the 1:30 “adorant” didn’t show up, I’d spend two hours
in the church. Each week, Mary directed me to “Do whatever He tells you!” and for two
years, although I showed up regularly, I could not hear Him speak to me.
Meanwhile, back in the real world, money was short since I was raising our children
instead of practicing law. It was scary to be spending an hour in church praying, when I
needed to be finding a way to balance our finances. Honestly, sometimes I just prayed
for money! But I wanted to believe. Like Natalie Woods in Miracle on 34 th Street, even
when it was a dejected sort of prayer, I kept chanting “I believe, I believe, I believe….”
In large part I persevered by repeatedly reflecting on the shrine of “The Stable at
Bethlehem”. It gave me perspective to contemplate the dire poverty Mary was dealing
with that night she gave birth. “The night was cold, the accommodations were poor,
everything about it seemed wrong. But Mary believed…. [and] her faith in God made
everything else less bothersome.” Really? In such extreme circumstances she could
overlook the “bothersome-ness” of giving birth in a stable? She could believe in
something so big she couldn’t possibly have known the full implications? I think I can
juggle the bills and make ends meet when considering her challenges. Yes, I was
experiencing the serenity that prayerfulness engenders. But try as I might, I could not
empty my head and hear Jesus telling me what to do!
So, after two years of adoration, I decided to try a change in tactics – I would sit. Just sit
and listen. I stopped reading prayers and saying my rosary. I focused my gaze on the
Eucharist up on the altar. I visualized peeling back the resistance that cocoons my brain.
I invoked Bella at the end of the Twilight saga when she peels back her shield and lets
Edward read her mind. Like Bella, it takes all my focus to keep my mind open to
receive, instead of closed to protect. But when I peel back my barriers and clear my
channel for reception, I get a clue that the wellspring of grace is vast. Instead of trying to
wrap my head around the concept, I have to “un”wrap my head – to stop thinking.
Instead of judging or processing thoughts as they pop in, I focus on keeping my mind
open and letting myself fill up. I won’t let “me” ask questions, I don’t worry about bills,
I don’t count my blessings. By just focusing on opening up, I can finally stop the chatter!
My amazing human relationships are the foundation I stand upon which open me up to
this wonder of universal love. I honestly feel the presence of angels; a tingling, swirling
spread of energy that is like goose bumps from the inside-out. I can accept that faith
requires believing in something you cannot see. When I suspend my disbelief and sit
quietly in my little church, I feel a glow emanating from every pore of my body; and I’m
able to return to my stressful, busy, rewarding life filled with love, to share and spread
with my loved ones, and even my un-loved ones!