Oh Lord, purify me, make me a chalice in which you dwell, offer your sacrifice in me and spread your love through me. Let me shine like gold, adorn me with the jewels of virtue that I may always be open to you. Fill me. Overflow me. Let me be like that most perfect vessel, the Singular Vessel of Devotion, She to whom I cry for protection against the Evil One. I ask this for your glory, for the vessel is nothing without the sustenance inside, the cup nothing unless it is filled. Oh Lord, purify me.

Give me a word, Abba

Monday, December 17, 2012

In which Home is recovered

We're all looking for Home.

Home, n. a place in which Rest, Revelry, Joy, and Peace happen, but most of all, Love.

One of the ideas of Home that I most identify with is the idea of Ithaca. After a long journey of hardship, failure, there's a chance that I might be able to return to my family. But it seems like even those places that are most like Home often fail you. I won't deny that Notre Dame, as close to Home as I've ever felt away from home, constantly disappoints me and the joy and peace and revelry that shines through reflecting off the golden dome seems to elude me so often.

Where to find it then? People look in the strangest places. Young men try to find acceptance and brotherhood in gangs, hippies try the commune approach. Drugs create a false sense of happiness or at least a respite from pain. It's tempting in this world of pain to try to just escape it and in that way find "home." But home isn't just a negation of pain or evil. There must be a positive good to it or else it's just s doldrum nihilist existence.

Home is the stars shining through a cold night and the moon reflecting off frozen dew. Home is light shining on tawny brick and shadows cast on cold stone. Home is green grass and fall leaves. Home is, in other words, Beauty.

Home is where the heart is? My heart longs for Beauty and wherever my heart recovers that, then I am Home.

And I am Home.

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