Thursday, September 18, 2008
Shamed an aspiring entreprenaur
I write what I've heard. A lovely young woman approached me after a talk on money as sacrament. This is what she said: "I had a Catholic upbringing. I can't help but feel guilty as my vitamin business is now making lots of money." We talked further and I heard how her business had grown but anxiety had grown with it. "Being rich means I'm not following the poor Christ." Susan felt isolated, unworthy of an abundant income, and conflicted. Is there not a better way our churches can preach the good gospel about earning money? About having money and the good we can do with it?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Testimonial for Money As Sacrament
Dear reader,
I received this email from a woman who gave me permission to share parts of it. Since I'm still speaking and writing about money issues, I felt her words might encourage you, my reader, to order Money As Sacrament. Like S., I know you won't be sorry.
This is, in part, what S.had to say:
"I want to thank you for writing Money As Sacrament. It was an answer to my prayer. I have been on a spiritual path for many years, probably all my life, although the early years too, in the form of religion - Lutheran and Pentecostal - because my Dad was and now is a retired minister. .... (then)there was a drastic transformation from religion to spirituality which stated in 1990 and now, I feel closer to God than ever before.
... Though unique circumstances, this amazing book became a major turning point of my journey. I am one of six kids and having a minister father and being born in a third world country like Guyana, money was scarce. We grew up in Canada, but still, I felt like Dad was protecting us from the 'evil' of money. ....
I firmly believe God wanted me to change the way I saw and thought of money, stuff I didn't even know I had in me. ... Your book brought all of this to the surface and I was forced to look at myself and tell my own money story, which I did in my journal.
.... So Adele, thank you so much for this book. I will always cherish this time in my life when the transformation was made inside of me. ..... my mantra is now 'money is my friend, and my friend will always be faithful to me.' I own money. Money doesn't own me. I am not scared to be rich anymore and I do not have to make excuses for my wealth. This is good.
With eternal thanks and gratitude,
S.M.
I received this email from a woman who gave me permission to share parts of it. Since I'm still speaking and writing about money issues, I felt her words might encourage you, my reader, to order Money As Sacrament. Like S., I know you won't be sorry.
This is, in part, what S.had to say:
"I want to thank you for writing Money As Sacrament. It was an answer to my prayer. I have been on a spiritual path for many years, probably all my life, although the early years too, in the form of religion - Lutheran and Pentecostal - because my Dad was and now is a retired minister. .... (then)there was a drastic transformation from religion to spirituality which stated in 1990 and now, I feel closer to God than ever before.
... Though unique circumstances, this amazing book became a major turning point of my journey. I am one of six kids and having a minister father and being born in a third world country like Guyana, money was scarce. We grew up in Canada, but still, I felt like Dad was protecting us from the 'evil' of money. ....
I firmly believe God wanted me to change the way I saw and thought of money, stuff I didn't even know I had in me. ... Your book brought all of this to the surface and I was forced to look at myself and tell my own money story, which I did in my journal.
.... So Adele, thank you so much for this book. I will always cherish this time in my life when the transformation was made inside of me. ..... my mantra is now 'money is my friend, and my friend will always be faithful to me.' I own money. Money doesn't own me. I am not scared to be rich anymore and I do not have to make excuses for my wealth. This is good.
With eternal thanks and gratitude,
S.M.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Hatching Lifetimes of Resentments
Women have been hatching lifetimes of bottled up resentments and money quandaries. At money gatherings, I hear their cries with compassion and sadness. “I hate dealing with money. I just don’t fit with it.” One even thought it sinful to want to be rich. Sinful? A single mother was so depressed about a particular money loss that she couldn’t get out of bed for a week.
Okay, so historically, men did the business, woman did the dishes. Yet if we look closely, I make no exaggeration, we women have been money specialists all along. Haven’t we handled thousands of family dollars over the years Haven’t we written checks, received salaries, cashed the checks or deposited them. Haven’t we handed lunch money to our children, cash to our spouses and aging parents. Often, aren’t we’re the ones who pay the taxes, collect unemployment, and most always, the ones to figure out how to squeeze more money from tiny piggy banks. We are far more educated about money than we express.
So dear ladies, not only do we do dishes, we do finances. Not only do we fit in this society but perhaps, we run it. Take heart.
Okay, so historically, men did the business, woman did the dishes. Yet if we look closely, I make no exaggeration, we women have been money specialists all along. Haven’t we handled thousands of family dollars over the years Haven’t we written checks, received salaries, cashed the checks or deposited them. Haven’t we handed lunch money to our children, cash to our spouses and aging parents. Often, aren’t we’re the ones who pay the taxes, collect unemployment, and most always, the ones to figure out how to squeeze more money from tiny piggy banks. We are far more educated about money than we express.
So dear ladies, not only do we do dishes, we do finances. Not only do we fit in this society but perhaps, we run it. Take heart.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
It's All in the Bread
Dropping a piece of bread on the floor raised my young mother’s eyebrows. “Kiss it! she’d say. No matter the kind of bread, no matter the dust on the floor, bread was holy! If we dropped it, we kissed it. We not only kissed it, we touched it to our forehead.
An Arabic custom, bread was not considered ordinary food. Bread was representative of a man’s labor and basic sustenance. Bread was divine a symbol for God, the real nutrient of life. “You must honor bread with complete respect,” Mom would direct.
Mom was the faithful bread baker back in the forties, the kind of bread that most of us now call “Pita Bread.” Although I was only seven, I still see it all: the mixing, the kneading, the baking. Blend flour with water, create the right dough consistency, pull and separate the spongy stuff into small balls, roll each into tiny mounds on the dining room table. “Now, they have to sleep.”
In the Florida heat, the mounds swelled under the additional warmth of an old Army blanket. “It’s like pregnancy. We have to wait until it’s time.” Every few hours, mom escaped clerking in our Orlando 7-11 type grocery store on highway 17-92 to climb upstairs and peek under the blanket at her growing babies until she’d finally smile: “They’re ready”.
Now, she’d pull away the blanket, flatten each of them into circles, turning them like pizza dough. And yes again, a couple of rounds of sleep time until they finally made their way into a 500 degree oven. Sweat like a mini waterfall dripped from her face as she leaned down before the magic oven to pull out each browned loaf with her flat wooden shovel and toss it into a pile on the kitchen table. (I still have that dear flat wooden shovel) We stood by wanting to grab that first warm loaf, to pour real butter all over it and go at savoring the joy.
“Let’s give thanks.” Mama never forgot. Like a yeasting, a waiting, a solemn gathering, we circled for a ritual of thanksgiving. Though panting and sweating, mom retained enough saintly strength to remind us of bread’s deeper force. “If you drop a piece, make sure you kiss it.”
There is a custom in the Catholic Ritual that echos mom’s teaching. If when the priest is giving communion, the holy bread falls to the floor, the priest must pick it up and kiss the sacred bread as well. My mother knew well her ritual, and perhaps under the influence of memory, mom’s practice stemmed from her religion, a Greek Orthodox ritual.
Now, forty years later, I drop a piece of bread, I can’t help myself: I instinctively kiss it and touch it to my forehead and feel an automatic connection to my adored mother. But even more, I instinctively feel linked to something holy.
An Arabic custom, bread was not considered ordinary food. Bread was representative of a man’s labor and basic sustenance. Bread was divine a symbol for God, the real nutrient of life. “You must honor bread with complete respect,” Mom would direct.
Mom was the faithful bread baker back in the forties, the kind of bread that most of us now call “Pita Bread.” Although I was only seven, I still see it all: the mixing, the kneading, the baking. Blend flour with water, create the right dough consistency, pull and separate the spongy stuff into small balls, roll each into tiny mounds on the dining room table. “Now, they have to sleep.”
In the Florida heat, the mounds swelled under the additional warmth of an old Army blanket. “It’s like pregnancy. We have to wait until it’s time.” Every few hours, mom escaped clerking in our Orlando 7-11 type grocery store on highway 17-92 to climb upstairs and peek under the blanket at her growing babies until she’d finally smile: “They’re ready”.
Now, she’d pull away the blanket, flatten each of them into circles, turning them like pizza dough. And yes again, a couple of rounds of sleep time until they finally made their way into a 500 degree oven. Sweat like a mini waterfall dripped from her face as she leaned down before the magic oven to pull out each browned loaf with her flat wooden shovel and toss it into a pile on the kitchen table. (I still have that dear flat wooden shovel) We stood by wanting to grab that first warm loaf, to pour real butter all over it and go at savoring the joy.
“Let’s give thanks.” Mama never forgot. Like a yeasting, a waiting, a solemn gathering, we circled for a ritual of thanksgiving. Though panting and sweating, mom retained enough saintly strength to remind us of bread’s deeper force. “If you drop a piece, make sure you kiss it.”
There is a custom in the Catholic Ritual that echos mom’s teaching. If when the priest is giving communion, the holy bread falls to the floor, the priest must pick it up and kiss the sacred bread as well. My mother knew well her ritual, and perhaps under the influence of memory, mom’s practice stemmed from her religion, a Greek Orthodox ritual.
Now, forty years later, I drop a piece of bread, I can’t help myself: I instinctively kiss it and touch it to my forehead and feel an automatic connection to my adored mother. But even more, I instinctively feel linked to something holy.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Garden Epiphanies
Take your money fears to your garden where all nature addresses that fear. Notice how, for example, when you prune a plant, at some point, it comes back fuller than ever. Pruning is difficult. I hate to prune. It feels as if I'm hurting my baby, but that hurt turns to fulness. Unexpected joyful fullness.
Another of nature's examples for your money fear: note how long your orchid is bare and you wonder, maddeningly, if you'll ever see its magnificence. One day, Voila! a blossoming Vanda, purple and cream with vibrating lines of blood red opens to your eyes. You scratch your head. What did I do? You didn't do anything except wait. It was your patience. All growth appears in the fullness of its own time,
Stand open to your money fear. Water it down with prayer, vision your success, rich and bright and fertile. Give gratitude for all of it. Watch all your fear turn to joy.
Another of nature's examples for your money fear: note how long your orchid is bare and you wonder, maddeningly, if you'll ever see its magnificence. One day, Voila! a blossoming Vanda, purple and cream with vibrating lines of blood red opens to your eyes. You scratch your head. What did I do? You didn't do anything except wait. It was your patience. All growth appears in the fullness of its own time,
Stand open to your money fear. Water it down with prayer, vision your success, rich and bright and fertile. Give gratitude for all of it. Watch all your fear turn to joy.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
How Money Connects me to God
The air I breathe these days is filled with excitement. There are workshops, presentations, a gathering of women over a cup of Tea. The subject? Money as a Spiritual Entity, our relationship to it and how we are improving and deepening that relationship. Questions fill the room and reflections abound.
I come with my book "Money As Sacrament" as it presents my life's theme: how my immigrant father’s single minded ambition for making good in America paradoxically propelled my own ambition to a life of vowed poverty as a teaching Sister of St. Joseph; how later, out on my own, I addressed my own need to swell my coffers by overworking just like my father, not to mention dealing with a troublesome, substantial windfall after my parents died.
To add to my money’s spiritual vision, I met and married a college educated, once production but homeless Jim, forcing me to resolve cultural issues about his empty pockets.
Fourteen years later, I testify that I’ve never been happier. What Jim had money couldn't buy, a poetic sensibility, writing and editing skills and a love of everything real.
It amazes me how by God’s mysterious hand, all “found confluences” enlighten and educate the readers of my book. I walk in gratitude.
I come with my book "Money As Sacrament" as it presents my life's theme: how my immigrant father’s single minded ambition for making good in America paradoxically propelled my own ambition to a life of vowed poverty as a teaching Sister of St. Joseph; how later, out on my own, I addressed my own need to swell my coffers by overworking just like my father, not to mention dealing with a troublesome, substantial windfall after my parents died.
To add to my money’s spiritual vision, I met and married a college educated, once production but homeless Jim, forcing me to resolve cultural issues about his empty pockets.
Fourteen years later, I testify that I’ve never been happier. What Jim had money couldn't buy, a poetic sensibility, writing and editing skills and a love of everything real.
It amazes me how by God’s mysterious hand, all “found confluences” enlighten and educate the readers of my book. I walk in gratitude.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Dangling Daily Bread
I don't think, as I've often mused, that anyone ever gets completely comfortable with money. It's like getting completely comfortable with who we are and most of us are always in a state of becoming, in an evolving state of loving who we are.
I need to take time to ponder the money in my hands. I think about it, budget it, save it, set aside some for a rainy day, but as to "what" and "who" it is... I want to allow it to commune with me.
Give me this day my daily bread, daily bread in my pocket and purse, jingling - jangling. A beloved reminder and symbol that says God is filled with giving... is giving, always gives. Oh, what joy to hear that dangling daily bread.
I need to take time to ponder the money in my hands. I think about it, budget it, save it, set aside some for a rainy day, but as to "what" and "who" it is... I want to allow it to commune with me.
Give me this day my daily bread, daily bread in my pocket and purse, jingling - jangling. A beloved reminder and symbol that says God is filled with giving... is giving, always gives. Oh, what joy to hear that dangling daily bread.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Prayer Coming out of Nowhere
Thank you God for - well - for all my gifts. Know what I like about you God? Everything! Sure, I’ve never seen you, never heard the sound of your voice (except inside me), and I never know for sure what you want of me, or for the world. But some strong thread connects me to you, and I’m not dangling on it but somehow sewed into your reality. Again, thanks for making my life seamlessly purposeful.Amen.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Editor's Request
My editor, Annie O'Shaughnessy of Soul Flares magazine, asked me to back track and tell her how and when Thomas Merton,spiritual writer came to be such an influence in my life. I took a few minutes to simply stream my thoughts:
"I still remember the day. I was a novice in the Sisters of St. Joseph, standing before the side book case looking for a good read. I caught the title: The Sign of Jonas. I pulled it down, opened it at random to read a journal entry about two black men observed by the author, Merton, who were sitting outside on a long log reading a newspaper, and happily laughing at something, maybe what they were reading? Merton commented: These men were having more fun than we who are supposed to know so much, like these uneducated guys knew more than the monastery gurus..
I took the book out on the long dock over the St. Lucie River in Jensen Beach, to the edge where the wind really blows. This wild monk and writer was blessedly piercing my soul, teaching me how to find more of God. Merton made it sound so easy, so fluid. But of course, it was tough work. Here he was saying I could just be me, as I was, with my stuff out of place, with my dreams askew. Yes, I could trust God. But more, I could trust myself.
And after that, I read every Merton book we had in the convent.
Years later, as a single woman with my own name, Ms Azar, I initiated a Merton Group in my home. People were drawn to his idea of holiness which, simply put, meant being and becoming more of who we were, which any fool knows is the hardest of holy paths to follow. That group ran for almost twelve years. Some friends stayed for all those years.
And of course, Annie, I met my future husband, Jim because of Merton. His mother had read Merton, and he easily contracted the spiritual disease.
I have, and can't seem to let go of them, almost every book Merton ever wrote. I read him still, almost daily. His journals make me think and pray and yes, despair about the way governments lead us into destruction. His government at the time was the Nixon era, the bomb shelter buildup, and the horror of the Vietnam War.
But how we just can't give up. He poo pooed Television, but was so inflamed when he saw police dogs going after black people in Selma (was that the place?) he decided that TV had a place since good television was able to affect hearts.
Merton believed that a spark of God lived in all of us, and we could never, no matter how bad we were, (Hitler included), extinguish that spark. I think because of Merton I was lead to work for peace, for prejudice reduction, for feeding the homeless, for Middle East resolution... well... you get the idea.
Enough said???
Blessings,
Adele
"I still remember the day. I was a novice in the Sisters of St. Joseph, standing before the side book case looking for a good read. I caught the title: The Sign of Jonas. I pulled it down, opened it at random to read a journal entry about two black men observed by the author, Merton, who were sitting outside on a long log reading a newspaper, and happily laughing at something, maybe what they were reading? Merton commented: These men were having more fun than we who are supposed to know so much, like these uneducated guys knew more than the monastery gurus..
I took the book out on the long dock over the St. Lucie River in Jensen Beach, to the edge where the wind really blows. This wild monk and writer was blessedly piercing my soul, teaching me how to find more of God. Merton made it sound so easy, so fluid. But of course, it was tough work. Here he was saying I could just be me, as I was, with my stuff out of place, with my dreams askew. Yes, I could trust God. But more, I could trust myself.
And after that, I read every Merton book we had in the convent.
Years later, as a single woman with my own name, Ms Azar, I initiated a Merton Group in my home. People were drawn to his idea of holiness which, simply put, meant being and becoming more of who we were, which any fool knows is the hardest of holy paths to follow. That group ran for almost twelve years. Some friends stayed for all those years.
And of course, Annie, I met my future husband, Jim because of Merton. His mother had read Merton, and he easily contracted the spiritual disease.
I have, and can't seem to let go of them, almost every book Merton ever wrote. I read him still, almost daily. His journals make me think and pray and yes, despair about the way governments lead us into destruction. His government at the time was the Nixon era, the bomb shelter buildup, and the horror of the Vietnam War.
But how we just can't give up. He poo pooed Television, but was so inflamed when he saw police dogs going after black people in Selma (was that the place?) he decided that TV had a place since good television was able to affect hearts.
Merton believed that a spark of God lived in all of us, and we could never, no matter how bad we were, (Hitler included), extinguish that spark. I think because of Merton I was lead to work for peace, for prejudice reduction, for feeding the homeless, for Middle East resolution... well... you get the idea.
Enough said???
Blessings,
Adele
Monday, May 05, 2008
Branching To Another Desperately Needed Peace
I am an Arab American women who writes about making peace with our money. I'm also involved in praying for peace in the Middle East. In the 90's, I worked long and hard with devoted American Jews to bring Jews and Arabs, both Arab Christians and Arab Muslims to a greater understanding of each other. Many times, we succeeded and groups that had once been alienated from each other became friends.
I received this essay a few days ago. I weep that it is so, that the Middle East carnage continues. The essay was signed by over 109 Jews. I want to honor their word and print their sadness on my blog. I wanted you to know, many of my own Jewish friends mourn this reality as well.
------------------------------------------------------------
On the subject of celebrating the 60th anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel.
This article appeared in the Guardian (UK) on Wednesday April 30
2008
. It was last updated at00:00 on April 30 2008.
================
In May, Jewish organisations will be celebrating the 60th anniversary of the founding of the state of Israel. This is understandable in the context of centuries of persecution culminating in the Holocaust. Nevertheless, we are Jews who will not be celebrating. Surely it is now time to acknowledge the narrative of the other, the price paid by another people for European anti-semitism and Hitler's genocidal policies. As Edward Said emphasised, what the Holocaust is to the Jews, the Naqba is to the Palestinians.
>
In April 1948, the same month as the infamous massacre at Deir Yassin and the mortar attack on Palestinian civilians in Haifa's market square, Plan Dalet was put into operation. This authorised the destruction of Palestinian villages and the expulsion of the indigenous population outside the borders of the state. We will not be celebrating.
>
In July 1948, 70,000 Palestinians were driven from their homes in Lydda andRamleh in the heat of the summer with no food or water. Hundreds died. It was known as the Death March. We will not be celebrating.
>
In all, 750,000 Palestinians became refugees. Some 400 villages were wiped off the map. That did not end the ethnic cleansing. Thousands of Palestinians (Israeli citizens) were expelled from the Galilee in 1956. Many thousands more when Israel occupied the West Bank and Gaza. Under international law and sanctioned by UN resolution 194, refugees from war have a right to return or compensation. Israel has never accepted that right. We will not be celebrating.
>
We cannot celebrate the birthday of a state founded on terrorism, massacres and the dispossession of another people from their land. We cannot celebrate the birthday of a state that even now engages in ethnic cleansing, that violates international law, that is inflicting a monstrous collective punishment on the civilian population of Gaza and that continues to deny to Palestinians their human rights and national aspirations.
>We will celebrate when Arab and Jew live as equals in a peaceful Middle East.
I received this essay a few days ago. I weep that it is so, that the Middle East carnage continues. The essay was signed by over 109 Jews. I want to honor their word and print their sadness on my blog. I wanted you to know, many of my own Jewish friends mourn this reality as well.
------------------------------------------------------------
On the subject of celebrating the 60th anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel.
This article appeared in the Guardian (UK)
2008
================
In May, Jewish organisations will be celebrating the 60th anniversary of the founding of the state of Israel. This is understandable in the context of centuries of persecution culminating in the Holocaust. Nevertheless, we are Jews who will not be celebrating. Surely it is now time to acknowledge the narrative of the other, the price paid by another people for European anti-semitism and Hitler's genocidal policies. As Edward Said emphasised, what the Holocaust is to the Jews, the Naqba is to the Palestinians.
>
In April 1948, the same month as the infamous massacre at Deir Yassin and the mortar attack on Palestinian civilians in Haifa's market square, Plan Dalet was put into operation. This authorised the destruction of Palestinian villages and the expulsion of the indigenous population outside the borders of the state. We will not be celebrating.
>
In July 1948, 70,000 Palestinians were driven from their homes in Lydda andRamleh in the heat of the summer with no food or water. Hundreds died. It was known as the Death March. We will not be celebrating.
>
In all, 750,000 Palestinians became refugees. Some 400 villages were wiped off the map. That did not end the ethnic cleansing. Thousands of Palestinians (Israeli citizens) were expelled from the Galilee in 1956. Many thousands more when Israel occupied the West Bank and Gaza. Under international law and sanctioned by UN resolution 194, refugees from war have a right to return or compensation. Israel has never accepted that right. We will not be celebrating.
>
We cannot celebrate the birthday of a state founded on terrorism, massacres and the dispossession of another people from their land. We cannot celebrate the birthday of a state that even now engages in ethnic cleansing, that violates international law, that is inflicting a monstrous collective punishment on the civilian population of Gaza and that continues to deny to Palestinians their human rights and national aspirations.
>We will celebrate when Arab and Jew live as equals in a peaceful Middle East.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Secular Sanctity
As you know, the title of my book is Money As Sacrament. Back in 1984, Father Edward Hays wrote about money in one of his many books, Secular Sanctity. Only last year I found his book. What Joy. He wasn't a bit shy about calling money sacramental. At the time, ten years later that I had decided on my title, I was definitely feeling I was in new and scary waters. Sacraments in the Catholic church, were just seven. Yes, seven and only seven. How many times as a Catholic Nun had I taught these church truths. So besides feeling that I was original by using that title -not any longer- I really wondered if the church might kick me out.
Well, they didn't kick me out and I've been spreading this truth: That when we use money with integrity, honesty, and good will, we bring God into the process and our exchange with another becomes sacramental. This truth is catching on and I'm feeling blessed about the whole matter.
Won't you spread the idea as well?
Here are a few paragraphs from Father Hays thoughts on the sacramental use of money:
First we should love our money and take pride in it. It is good to be proud of having earned it, for money is one sign of a job well done. Every paycheck is a pat on the back.
Next, mindful that our money is a sacrament in which we can say “This is me... this is my sweat and toil...” we should use it to nourish our bodies, which it represents. So, part of our income goes for food, clothing, shelter and also for entertainment and fun. This expression of self-love is good and holy.
The dollar bills in your billfold are not only a sign of you, but also of the community to which you belong. They are the frequent reminder that you belong to a certain nation whose money you use symbolically. So, with part of your money you pay taxes. You should rejoice that this communion of self helps to build highways, pay teachers’ salaries and patch up the potholes in the street in front of your house...
Some of your money goes into our Social Security system and is given to the elderly and the needy. So a part of you puts food on the plate of some aged man or woman or helps pay the rent of an elderly person. By means of this withholding payment you are able to put flesh on the words that Jesus speaks about seeing him in those who are in need...
Finally, in numerous ways we are inclined to use parts of our money on gifts to those we love, to friends, and to those organizations, and activities we feel are important to the world and to growth of the human spirit. Whenever we give a gift of money we could seal it with a kiss or a wink...saying, “This is my body...this is me...this is my love.”
Edward Hays. Secular Sanctity, Leavenworth, Kansas, Forest Press of Peace, 1984, 41.
===========================================================
Dear reader, you can see why I fell in love with the words of this unknown priest from Kansas. He had prepared the way for my own thinking and I didn't even know it.
Well, they didn't kick me out and I've been spreading this truth: That when we use money with integrity, honesty, and good will, we bring God into the process and our exchange with another becomes sacramental. This truth is catching on and I'm feeling blessed about the whole matter.
Won't you spread the idea as well?
Here are a few paragraphs from Father Hays thoughts on the sacramental use of money:
First we should love our money and take pride in it. It is good to be proud of having earned it, for money is one sign of a job well done. Every paycheck is a pat on the back.
Next, mindful that our money is a sacrament in which we can say “This is me... this is my sweat and toil...” we should use it to nourish our bodies, which it represents. So, part of our income goes for food, clothing, shelter and also for entertainment and fun. This expression of self-love is good and holy.
The dollar bills in your billfold are not only a sign of you, but also of the community to which you belong. They are the frequent reminder that you belong to a certain nation whose money you use symbolically. So, with part of your money you pay taxes. You should rejoice that this communion of self helps to build highways, pay teachers’ salaries and patch up the potholes in the street in front of your house...
Some of your money goes into our Social Security system and is given to the elderly and the needy. So a part of you puts food on the plate of some aged man or woman or helps pay the rent of an elderly person. By means of this withholding payment you are able to put flesh on the words that Jesus speaks about seeing him in those who are in need...
Finally, in numerous ways we are inclined to use parts of our money on gifts to those we love, to friends, and to those organizations, and activities we feel are important to the world and to growth of the human spirit. Whenever we give a gift of money we could seal it with a kiss or a wink...saying, “This is my body...this is me...this is my love.”
Edward Hays. Secular Sanctity, Leavenworth, Kansas, Forest Press of Peace, 1984, 41.
===========================================================
Dear reader, you can see why I fell in love with the words of this unknown priest from Kansas. He had prepared the way for my own thinking and I didn't even know it.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Moving Beyond the Bruise
Recently reading the French word, “chantepleure” brought to mind the emotion I felt when I suffered the loss of five thousand dollars in an attempt to learn Arabic at Vermont’s Middlebury College. Chantepleure means to weep and sing at the same time.
I had enrolled in Middlebury’s immersion program. I contracted to speak no English for nine weeks in order to read and write this Middle Eastern Language. I desperately wanted to take on Arabic since I was involved here in Orlando in Middle East peacemaking. I would bond more easily with the local Arabic people.
As the class progressed, there was no doubt. Arabic’s strange calligraphy and guttural sounds were leading me into a depression so strong that one day I simply got up from class, tears rolling down my cheeks, and walked down to the river’s old Middlebury bridge. To this day, I remember staring down long and hard at the dancing rapids inviting me to join them.
That night, I lay in bed, eyes swollen after that long cry. I could not talk to anyone there. Unlike hermits who value their silence, I felt desperately alone by my imposed quiet. Never before had I been so violently thrown apart from a community, so beaten down as if I were a nobody, a dunce. I was fifty-five years old. It shouldn’t be happening to me.
At some point that next morning, with the help a bright beaming sun, I began to reinvent the entire experience, wondering if I could turn trauma into triumph. Could I discover something far more essential? I decided to skip class and let my bike take me to the Middlebury library. Something sparked as I moved among the library shelves, pulling off books, dropping some in my haste, taking them outside onto the lawn chairs, desperately hopeful to heal my drooping spirit. I sat reading and rereading. I marked passages in my notebook, studied stories, poured over self-help books, bios. I asked God to speak to me through these familiar letters and words in the author’s English language.
English was singing in my head, and I realized how much I had missed its loving melodies. For weeks, I had not spoken or listened to this native language. I threw down that promise not to speak or write English and under leafy Maples, I pulled out my notebook. My pen pushed into my story, my questions to myself. I wrote Dear God letters and letters to my bruised spirit. I felt sweet kinship with the whistling birds in tree tops. Little did I suspect but my ability to write was being born from that quiet of times under Vermont’s green.
Calmly resting in the serene landscape of Vermont, I found my sanity returning from this language freedom. I sang, other times wept, chantepleure happening in its deepest meaning. It was abundantly clear. I was the caterpillar gestating and longing in the moments to break free.
Now, only with years passed, can I look back with gratitude for that summer’s chantepleure. That writing of a heartbreak exchange between pain and loss included prayers to God who, in the entire process, had never failed to move me forward to a place where, unknown to me, I really wanted to go. It was not so much wanting to stand up as an Arabic speaking communicator, but to enter a field where my communicating words would inspire others by life’s good twists and turns.
Eventually, my writing focused on a subject that grew out of the $5000 loss. I spent that money, not to learn Arabic, but to fall in love with my native language. I published my first book, Money As Sacrament, the product of a silent hope, a gift to others and most especially, God’s gift to me.
I had enrolled in Middlebury’s immersion program. I contracted to speak no English for nine weeks in order to read and write this Middle Eastern Language. I desperately wanted to take on Arabic since I was involved here in Orlando in Middle East peacemaking. I would bond more easily with the local Arabic people.
As the class progressed, there was no doubt. Arabic’s strange calligraphy and guttural sounds were leading me into a depression so strong that one day I simply got up from class, tears rolling down my cheeks, and walked down to the river’s old Middlebury bridge. To this day, I remember staring down long and hard at the dancing rapids inviting me to join them.
That night, I lay in bed, eyes swollen after that long cry. I could not talk to anyone there. Unlike hermits who value their silence, I felt desperately alone by my imposed quiet. Never before had I been so violently thrown apart from a community, so beaten down as if I were a nobody, a dunce. I was fifty-five years old. It shouldn’t be happening to me.
At some point that next morning, with the help a bright beaming sun, I began to reinvent the entire experience, wondering if I could turn trauma into triumph. Could I discover something far more essential? I decided to skip class and let my bike take me to the Middlebury library. Something sparked as I moved among the library shelves, pulling off books, dropping some in my haste, taking them outside onto the lawn chairs, desperately hopeful to heal my drooping spirit. I sat reading and rereading. I marked passages in my notebook, studied stories, poured over self-help books, bios. I asked God to speak to me through these familiar letters and words in the author’s English language.
English was singing in my head, and I realized how much I had missed its loving melodies. For weeks, I had not spoken or listened to this native language. I threw down that promise not to speak or write English and under leafy Maples, I pulled out my notebook. My pen pushed into my story, my questions to myself. I wrote Dear God letters and letters to my bruised spirit. I felt sweet kinship with the whistling birds in tree tops. Little did I suspect but my ability to write was being born from that quiet of times under Vermont’s green.
Calmly resting in the serene landscape of Vermont, I found my sanity returning from this language freedom. I sang, other times wept, chantepleure happening in its deepest meaning. It was abundantly clear. I was the caterpillar gestating and longing in the moments to break free.
Now, only with years passed, can I look back with gratitude for that summer’s chantepleure. That writing of a heartbreak exchange between pain and loss included prayers to God who, in the entire process, had never failed to move me forward to a place where, unknown to me, I really wanted to go. It was not so much wanting to stand up as an Arabic speaking communicator, but to enter a field where my communicating words would inspire others by life’s good twists and turns.
Eventually, my writing focused on a subject that grew out of the $5000 loss. I spent that money, not to learn Arabic, but to fall in love with my native language. I published my first book, Money As Sacrament, the product of a silent hope, a gift to others and most especially, God’s gift to me.
Monday, April 07, 2008
A Soulfull Orange tree
The backyard garden calls forth a deep happiness. I walk its pathways amid flowering and fruited gifts and peeking weeds. There is stability here. It grows on me. Papaya, grapefruit and orange trees rest in their familiar places, green and growing. They beam in smiling sunlight.
It was my delight to enter each into the ground. I watered, fed. and picked off enemy bugs. I talked with them. Today, they answer me: heavy oranges and grapefruits hang low on thick branches. I laugh, pulling them off as many as my arms can carry. Some roll off and even more as I bend to pick them up.
I am my immigrant father of years ago who honored and worshiped his first Florida orange tree. “Florida is sunshine itself.” He bowed before that first planted fruit tree as if bowing at the communion rail... as if holy bread had been given from the hands of the priest as if this tree had come directly from God.
I too, bow and can’t help but exclaim as I hold the round balls above me: “God, You shower me with earthly benedictions, planting me in a bed of delight.”
The more I get into this experiment called life, I resonate with something called “enough” I focus more on what I’ve gained rather than what I might have lost. This garden carries me through, connects me with that place of contentment. I am rich and and the flow doesn’t stop.
It was my delight to enter each into the ground. I watered, fed. and picked off enemy bugs. I talked with them. Today, they answer me: heavy oranges and grapefruits hang low on thick branches. I laugh, pulling them off as many as my arms can carry. Some roll off and even more as I bend to pick them up.
I am my immigrant father of years ago who honored and worshiped his first Florida orange tree. “Florida is sunshine itself.” He bowed before that first planted fruit tree as if bowing at the communion rail... as if holy bread had been given from the hands of the priest as if this tree had come directly from God.
I too, bow and can’t help but exclaim as I hold the round balls above me: “God, You shower me with earthly benedictions, planting me in a bed of delight.”
The more I get into this experiment called life, I resonate with something called “enough” I focus more on what I’ve gained rather than what I might have lost. This garden carries me through, connects me with that place of contentment. I am rich and and the flow doesn’t stop.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Enlightened Money
Enlightened Money
A deep yearning exists in each of us to find the sacred, yes, the holy even in that medium of exchange we call money. It is this vital tool of our culture that sustains and comforts. So how can we better see its blessedness. How can we know its goodness, not only in the work of commerce, but in our philanthropic insights.
Let me be clear: any fool knows it’s not the paper money that is holy but the human will, the heart, the good intention of the user that makes this symbol sacred. And when it happens, I’m right there.
I chanced upon an article in Ode Magazine, a magazine that refuses to publish “doom and gloom,” characteristic of so much media, but spreads good news, publishes the reality stories that say people are making a difference.
When I came to this banking story, a corporation that is all about money, I was thrilled to read how the ShoreBank Enterprise Cascadi lives up to its motto: “Let’s change the World.”
This dedicated institution is doing just that. Their stated mission is to support rural communities, people who have poor credit, or who are low-income, or otherwise ignored by the “normal” banking world. In 2007, they provided $13.7 million in loans, eighty percent of them in rural communities.
Most recently, when the landlords of Tryon Life Community Farm in Portland decided to sell their land to a residential developer to build 23 upscale homes, the Farm’s resident renters faced eviction. This Portland farm community had to raise more than $1.4 million to buy the land themselves. They went after the money, fundraising and seeking help from all sectors of the Portland community. ShoreBank loaned them $600,000.
The president of the Farm’s board of directors had this to say: "Other people (banks) would have just shaken their heads and said, ‘You have no track record. You’re hippies. No Way.’ But ShoreBank thought that what we were doing was important.”
Oh, if only the myopic American banking system could be that enlightened, could aim not only toward profit but balance financial goals with the needs of the communities. I believe that when our institutions do this kind of good with their money, they bring a bit of divinity into our commercial world. No one really loses. Communities would thrive, and yes, the banks would thrive as well. Where good will is practiced, there is always something of God at work.
A deep yearning exists in each of us to find the sacred, yes, the holy even in that medium of exchange we call money. It is this vital tool of our culture that sustains and comforts. So how can we better see its blessedness. How can we know its goodness, not only in the work of commerce, but in our philanthropic insights.
Let me be clear: any fool knows it’s not the paper money that is holy but the human will, the heart, the good intention of the user that makes this symbol sacred. And when it happens, I’m right there.
I chanced upon an article in Ode Magazine, a magazine that refuses to publish “doom and gloom,” characteristic of so much media, but spreads good news, publishes the reality stories that say people are making a difference.
When I came to this banking story, a corporation that is all about money, I was thrilled to read how the ShoreBank Enterprise Cascadi lives up to its motto: “Let’s change the World.”
This dedicated institution is doing just that. Their stated mission is to support rural communities, people who have poor credit, or who are low-income, or otherwise ignored by the “normal” banking world. In 2007, they provided $13.7 million in loans, eighty percent of them in rural communities.
Most recently, when the landlords of Tryon Life Community Farm in Portland decided to sell their land to a residential developer to build 23 upscale homes, the Farm’s resident renters faced eviction. This Portland farm community had to raise more than $1.4 million to buy the land themselves. They went after the money, fundraising and seeking help from all sectors of the Portland community. ShoreBank loaned them $600,000.
The president of the Farm’s board of directors had this to say: "Other people (banks) would have just shaken their heads and said, ‘You have no track record. You’re hippies. No Way.’ But ShoreBank thought that what we were doing was important.”
Oh, if only the myopic American banking system could be that enlightened, could aim not only toward profit but balance financial goals with the needs of the communities. I believe that when our institutions do this kind of good with their money, they bring a bit of divinity into our commercial world. No one really loses. Communities would thrive, and yes, the banks would thrive as well. Where good will is practiced, there is always something of God at work.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Saving Habits
Sure he was frugal. Frugality was lodged in his DNA. Dad’s religion included thrift like a night watchmen job includes a flash light. Never mind the distance my father had to gas up for vegetables on sale. Never mind the extra minutes. Fresh spinach, dicy cucumbers, or savory leeks at a bargain. Ads drew him. When a bright tomato danced in the evening’s tossed salad, we’d hear his boastful story of saving a few pennies.
As for me, the child eating and listening and catching warmth on his saving graces, his stories passed over into patterns of my own money behaviors. I’m compelled to claim a bedside bank close. No matter my age, I watch precious pennies drop into a “piggy bank.” to affirm that I’ll always be safe and secure when it comes to having enough
I think about his pennies. Dad called them “opportunities.” In them, he said, “God shines.” So now, for me, I spot one, which I did just yesterday and I stoop to grab it just quickly as my father grabbed juicy looking tomatoes. And on a bike ride, my feet can easily sqeak to a stop, turn back, pick one up and right there, polish it and savor that little instrument of joy.
Sure, it doesn’t buy much. But echoes of dad’s words: “it’s not about what it will buy. It’s about being vigilant, about all that is promised by God.” After all don’t we believe that embossed shiny inscription on it: In God We Trust?”
As for me, the child eating and listening and catching warmth on his saving graces, his stories passed over into patterns of my own money behaviors. I’m compelled to claim a bedside bank close. No matter my age, I watch precious pennies drop into a “piggy bank.” to affirm that I’ll always be safe and secure when it comes to having enough
I think about his pennies. Dad called them “opportunities.” In them, he said, “God shines.” So now, for me, I spot one, which I did just yesterday and I stoop to grab it just quickly as my father grabbed juicy looking tomatoes. And on a bike ride, my feet can easily sqeak to a stop, turn back, pick one up and right there, polish it and savor that little instrument of joy.
Sure, it doesn’t buy much. But echoes of dad’s words: “it’s not about what it will buy. It’s about being vigilant, about all that is promised by God.” After all don’t we believe that embossed shiny inscription on it: In God We Trust?”
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Love Dwells
Sufis celebrate God’s world by loving it, dancing on it, and serving the beauty of it. Sufis are the mystical part of the Muslim religion. Like Christian monks, they declare their love for God by living it in everything they do.
Like Sufis, our own spiritual path can serve the beauty of God’s world, regardless of place. In my case, when in my garden, love dwells even in the intricate lace work of a dying leaf, and in the plush redness of a blooming rose, and in the extragavant delicacy of a purple orchid.
Love even smiles on the words that I write on this page. Love dwells on your own eyes as you read my words.
Love dwells and dwells and goes on dwelling.
Is there a place in your world where love dwells?
Could you put a price tag on it?
Like Sufis, our own spiritual path can serve the beauty of God’s world, regardless of place. In my case, when in my garden, love dwells even in the intricate lace work of a dying leaf, and in the plush redness of a blooming rose, and in the extragavant delicacy of a purple orchid.
Love even smiles on the words that I write on this page. Love dwells on your own eyes as you read my words.
Love dwells and dwells and goes on dwelling.
Is there a place in your world where love dwells?
Could you put a price tag on it?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I don't care what your religion or creed
I don't care what religion or creed you hold. That doesn't interest me. What interests me are what values you hold and how you manifest those values. I care how you see yourself in this world of plenty and scarcity and how you respond to either state.
I'm interested in how you feel called to make a difference, no matter what the good difference might be. I'm interested, really, in your soul's work. In how you turn your failures into growth, how you handle the events that come roaring into your world, and how you want to grow your spirit while you still have a chance to do so in this life.
That's a subject that interests me and I'm proud to declare it and I welcome your comments about that.
I'm interested in how you feel called to make a difference, no matter what the good difference might be. I'm interested, really, in your soul's work. In how you turn your failures into growth, how you handle the events that come roaring into your world, and how you want to grow your spirit while you still have a chance to do so in this life.
That's a subject that interests me and I'm proud to declare it and I welcome your comments about that.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Thoughts on a blue/gray morning:
The gospel of money again. I’m wildly back pedaling, looking at the journey.
I like what I do, but if I do it being half there, then, my gosh, who am I?
I don’t know why things and life and death have to be dark, why my parents Great Depression scars pressed into my own skin. I don’t know why I had to say “F” you to my inheritance before I could say that I loved the money, was grateful for its presence, and finally got on my knees to God for all of it. I had to get rich before I got smart?
But it’s all there, all the black and blue of it, picking myself up, over and over with all the paper bags of stuff still clinging. I keep holding those old bags. When I arrive, hey, I can say I carried my load. I ran the slower race, but I wasn’t whipped. It’s no life if there hasn’t been a million tons of “why’s! Why this and why that?”
The church taught that we were blessed with guardian angels. I hope mine accompanied me in all the harshness of learning to grow up, to see things in brighter light. I hope my angel closed its wings in prayer for me, maybe even lifted me when the bridge to sanctity split in two, but stayed away at night when my nightmare got me crying, so that maybe, the next night, I slept with a smile.
All of us must learn before we die, to know what we are running from and to where we are running and why.
I like what I do, but if I do it being half there, then, my gosh, who am I?
I don’t know why things and life and death have to be dark, why my parents Great Depression scars pressed into my own skin. I don’t know why I had to say “F” you to my inheritance before I could say that I loved the money, was grateful for its presence, and finally got on my knees to God for all of it. I had to get rich before I got smart?
But it’s all there, all the black and blue of it, picking myself up, over and over with all the paper bags of stuff still clinging. I keep holding those old bags. When I arrive, hey, I can say I carried my load. I ran the slower race, but I wasn’t whipped. It’s no life if there hasn’t been a million tons of “why’s! Why this and why that?”
The church taught that we were blessed with guardian angels. I hope mine accompanied me in all the harshness of learning to grow up, to see things in brighter light. I hope my angel closed its wings in prayer for me, maybe even lifted me when the bridge to sanctity split in two, but stayed away at night when my nightmare got me crying, so that maybe, the next night, I slept with a smile.
All of us must learn before we die, to know what we are running from and to where we are running and why.
Friday, March 07, 2008
How my book, Money As Sacrament, Was Born
Long after Mom’s death, I found myself desperate to open up about the subject of money. For sixteen years as a teaching nun, there had been little enough attention paid to money. When I left the convent aswirl in confusion over this vast yet personal subject, I proceeded to take on three jobs, somehow fearful for my very survival. I worked day and night and nearly wrecked myself. Soon I had to admit that all that holy silence on the subject had done this pilgrim little good. Clearly my ideas and approach to money needed much retooling..
I sought to unearth the hidden emotional places where I had lived with money, places both mystic and archaic. My trust in God to go on showering manna on the world ran up against formidable financial insecurities I never realized I had.
In my follow-up incarnation as beneficiary of a substantial inheritance from my parents, I wondered if I could bring myself to embrace, at last, this illusive energy that had danced around me for so long. Maybe there was even a deeper spiritual truth to discover here.
Church sermons were often critical of the rich, as if possession of money made one less a Christian. I struggled for a different slant. I longed to affirm the use of money as an extension of human identity, perhaps even one of the most effective ways of expressing who we are. When I define money without reference to me or you it lacks any meaning; could it be that each of us simply defines money from his and her own place? That whatever moral value money possessed was merely up to us? That sounded familiar . . . “By their actions, you will know them” could be very close to “by their money, you shall know them”. Of course not in the sense so much of our culture sees it, in the size of our stockpile. But known by what values we assign to that otherwise most neutral of commodities. A conclusion became unavoidable, and I continue to share this truth wherever I speak: the healthy love of money actually empowers the soul, widens its horizons and grants it the possibility of an extraordinary role in the world.
Think about it.
I sought to unearth the hidden emotional places where I had lived with money, places both mystic and archaic. My trust in God to go on showering manna on the world ran up against formidable financial insecurities I never realized I had.
In my follow-up incarnation as beneficiary of a substantial inheritance from my parents, I wondered if I could bring myself to embrace, at last, this illusive energy that had danced around me for so long. Maybe there was even a deeper spiritual truth to discover here.
Church sermons were often critical of the rich, as if possession of money made one less a Christian. I struggled for a different slant. I longed to affirm the use of money as an extension of human identity, perhaps even one of the most effective ways of expressing who we are. When I define money without reference to me or you it lacks any meaning; could it be that each of us simply defines money from his and her own place? That whatever moral value money possessed was merely up to us? That sounded familiar . . . “By their actions, you will know them” could be very close to “by their money, you shall know them”. Of course not in the sense so much of our culture sees it, in the size of our stockpile. But known by what values we assign to that otherwise most neutral of commodities. A conclusion became unavoidable, and I continue to share this truth wherever I speak: the healthy love of money actually empowers the soul, widens its horizons and grants it the possibility of an extraordinary role in the world.
Think about it.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Check that Dollar Bill
Note the God on that money bill you carry in your purse and wallet. There's God's eye that sees and calls you and me to grab an eternal truth that we are part of the planet's community. We are part of bringing well-being to the grocer, to the banker, and the flowers we purchase from the kiosk owner in that giant mall. Well-being to all from my wallet. It's that simple.
It was in my writing the book, Money as Sacrament that I uncovered so much more than what I originally thought vital. Writing, journalling, and speaking about money delivered me to understand dollars and cents not simply as medium of exchange, something I simply hand over to another, but as something that connects me to others, draws them into my life and brings me into theirs. We are bonded in that moment of exchange. I celebrate that connection.
Thomas Merton, proliflic spiritual writer says it best: "My response must be to open myself to being a partner with God, working with Him, co-operating with the God who is my Maker and Redeemer. I find that it helps me to think of this in terms of stewardship, responsilility, accountability. What use am I making of the raw material (our green bills and plastic cards) that has been given to me?"
It was in my writing the book, Money as Sacrament that I uncovered so much more than what I originally thought vital. Writing, journalling, and speaking about money delivered me to understand dollars and cents not simply as medium of exchange, something I simply hand over to another, but as something that connects me to others, draws them into my life and brings me into theirs. We are bonded in that moment of exchange. I celebrate that connection.
Thomas Merton, proliflic spiritual writer says it best: "My response must be to open myself to being a partner with God, working with Him, co-operating with the God who is my Maker and Redeemer. I find that it helps me to think of this in terms of stewardship, responsilility, accountability. What use am I making of the raw material (our green bills and plastic cards) that has been given to me?"
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Everything Will be All Right
After not so patiently answering a thousand question, Janice, the Sears sales lady started pecking at her hand computer, obviously sick of my anxiety. But I couldn’t help myself. Two thousand dollars for a Frigidare oven? Sure we needed one, but a top of the line? I stepped away knowing that I’d been thrown back into the crazy ‘we don’t have enough money’ place.
Now you might think that’s a reasonable price for a range that’s going to fill all needs, that has a look any kitchen could die for, and that I own a check book that can handle the exchange. But the old emotional nemesis kept shouting: “Hey, Adele, it’s too much.”
Jealous of milling customers who didn’t suffer this ancient fear, I dived into a inner conference with my father; "Rescue me Dad! Yes,you always counseled, 'buy the best.' Isn’t the best here a little pricey?"
Jim, husband and new precious mentor, leaned down after moments of respectful silence: “Honey, don’t we want this stove?” Serene face, untouched by my cold feet. I searched that face: Damn, why can’t you get scared too. Is it just because it’s “my” money.
I looked into the mirror across the aisle: Get a grip, Adele. God blesses you with a blooming money tree and you make yourself worry sick? Was I still the nun holding a vow of poverty? Idiot!
I felt better.
“Sure we want this stove,” handing Janice my VISA. I picked up my wallet and turned toward Jim: “Honey, I’m ok.”
“If you say so.” He smiled: We joined hands and left the store. What a partner I married! Someone who understood my silly money noises.
You should know that anxiety attack when buying that stove happened early on in our marriage. Now, fourteen years later, I’m happily calm when it comes to flashy purchases. Only yesterday, I laid down my credit card for a Magellan navigator- excessive price tag - and no one heard a peep out of me.
Now you might think that’s a reasonable price for a range that’s going to fill all needs, that has a look any kitchen could die for, and that I own a check book that can handle the exchange. But the old emotional nemesis kept shouting: “Hey, Adele, it’s too much.”
Jealous of milling customers who didn’t suffer this ancient fear, I dived into a inner conference with my father; "Rescue me Dad! Yes,you always counseled, 'buy the best.' Isn’t the best here a little pricey?"
Jim, husband and new precious mentor, leaned down after moments of respectful silence: “Honey, don’t we want this stove?” Serene face, untouched by my cold feet. I searched that face: Damn, why can’t you get scared too. Is it just because it’s “my” money.
I looked into the mirror across the aisle: Get a grip, Adele. God blesses you with a blooming money tree and you make yourself worry sick? Was I still the nun holding a vow of poverty? Idiot!
I felt better.
“Sure we want this stove,” handing Janice my VISA. I picked up my wallet and turned toward Jim: “Honey, I’m ok.”
“If you say so.” He smiled: We joined hands and left the store. What a partner I married! Someone who understood my silly money noises.
You should know that anxiety attack when buying that stove happened early on in our marriage. Now, fourteen years later, I’m happily calm when it comes to flashy purchases. Only yesterday, I laid down my credit card for a Magellan navigator- excessive price tag - and no one heard a peep out of me.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Wealth's Varied Faces
Wealth’s Varied Faces
When mother came into her own bank account, and could spend it freely after my father’s passing, she confided that now the Arabic community “thinks I’m somebody.” For mom, it was a step-up in esteem.
Others might see their money as avenues to purchase. The red sweater, the red car, a new Ipod. It is their medium of exchange, and they give very little thought to what’s really going on.
There are varied meanings we attach to the concept of money: “It’s a burden. I’d be better off without it.” So spoke teenager Susie, working at Burger King, while Nurse Sheehy confessed: “I can really say, ‘I love money.’”
At this moment, my husband is flying a glider on his computer. He’s got pedals attached to it, and a steering wheel in front. Jim is traveling the islands, landing and then taking off, immersed in geography, in a quiet ride through this rainy evening. His CD plays the gentlest of musical sounds. He meditates on the stars. A contentment flows in him, a kind that I hadn’t yet seen our marriage. He wouldn’t exchange this entire experience for a home by the sea.. well, maybe not a home by the sea. Yet, I don’t think anything, even his afternoon peanut butter sandwiches can satisfy him as much as flying his computer glider.
Look into your heart. What’s your meaning of wealth?
When mother came into her own bank account, and could spend it freely after my father’s passing, she confided that now the Arabic community “thinks I’m somebody.” For mom, it was a step-up in esteem.
Others might see their money as avenues to purchase. The red sweater, the red car, a new Ipod. It is their medium of exchange, and they give very little thought to what’s really going on.
There are varied meanings we attach to the concept of money: “It’s a burden. I’d be better off without it.” So spoke teenager Susie, working at Burger King, while Nurse Sheehy confessed: “I can really say, ‘I love money.’”
At this moment, my husband is flying a glider on his computer. He’s got pedals attached to it, and a steering wheel in front. Jim is traveling the islands, landing and then taking off, immersed in geography, in a quiet ride through this rainy evening. His CD plays the gentlest of musical sounds. He meditates on the stars. A contentment flows in him, a kind that I hadn’t yet seen our marriage. He wouldn’t exchange this entire experience for a home by the sea.. well, maybe not a home by the sea. Yet, I don’t think anything, even his afternoon peanut butter sandwiches can satisfy him as much as flying his computer glider.
Look into your heart. What’s your meaning of wealth?
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
True Wealth
Remember, nobody hands out gifts like God, large gifts, spiritual gifts.
There is always one more gift to discover, even though it might have been there all the time.
The sight of an apple orchard, or the sun’s beams on a barn roof.
Check all the tastes a tomato offers in that evening salad you're consuming. Watch how a giant watermelon ripens on the vine. Natural gifts and then the gifts of the spirit:
That new neighbor who brings a warm pound cake to your kitchen back door.
The birthday present bought and paid for by your eldest child.
The surprise bonus your boss silently shoved into the mailboxes of all employees.
Gifts abound.
Someone once said: It’s all gift.
There is always one more gift to discover, even though it might have been there all the time.
The sight of an apple orchard, or the sun’s beams on a barn roof.
Check all the tastes a tomato offers in that evening salad you're consuming. Watch how a giant watermelon ripens on the vine. Natural gifts and then the gifts of the spirit:
That new neighbor who brings a warm pound cake to your kitchen back door.
The birthday present bought and paid for by your eldest child.
The surprise bonus your boss silently shoved into the mailboxes of all employees.
Gifts abound.
Someone once said: It’s all gift.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Saving Habits
Sure he was frugal. Frugality was lodged in his DNA. Dad’s religion included thrift like a night watchman's job includes a flash light. Never mind the distance my father had to gas up for vegetables on sale. Never mind the extra minutes. Fresh spinach, dicy cucumbers, or savory leeks at a bargain. Ads drew him. When a bright tomato danced in the evening’s tossed salad, we’d hear his boastful story of saving a few pennies.
As for me, the child eating and listening and catching warmth on his saving graces, his stories passed over into patterns of my own money behaviors. I’m compelled to claim a bedside bank close. No matter my age, I watch precious pennies drop into a “piggy bank.” to affirm that I’ll always be safe and secure when it comes to having enough
I think about his pennies. Dad called them “opportunities.” In them, he said, “God shines.” So now, for me, I spot one, which I did just yesterday, and I stoop to grab it just as quickly as my father grabbed juicy looking tomatoes. And on a bike ride, my feet can easily sqeak to a stop, turn back, pick one up and right there, polish it and savor that little instrument of joy.
Sure, it doesn’t buy much. But echoes of dad’s words: “it’s not about what it will buy. It’s about being vigilant, about all that is promised by God.” After all don’t we believe that embossed shiny inscription on it: In God We Trust?”
As for me, the child eating and listening and catching warmth on his saving graces, his stories passed over into patterns of my own money behaviors. I’m compelled to claim a bedside bank close. No matter my age, I watch precious pennies drop into a “piggy bank.” to affirm that I’ll always be safe and secure when it comes to having enough
I think about his pennies. Dad called them “opportunities.” In them, he said, “God shines.” So now, for me, I spot one, which I did just yesterday, and I stoop to grab it just as quickly as my father grabbed juicy looking tomatoes. And on a bike ride, my feet can easily sqeak to a stop, turn back, pick one up and right there, polish it and savor that little instrument of joy.
Sure, it doesn’t buy much. But echoes of dad’s words: “it’s not about what it will buy. It’s about being vigilant, about all that is promised by God.” After all don’t we believe that embossed shiny inscription on it: In God We Trust?”
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