True contentment adoring Christ

"The path to contentment is fraught with detachment."

After posting yesterday's reflection on contentment in isolation, I read the biography of St. Jerome, Doctor of the Church, who lived 331 to 420, a Greek educated in Rome by pagan and Christian teachers. He loved pagan pleasures of life, yet was baptized a Christian and enjoyed visiting tombs of martyrs and apostles to contemplate blessedness of the relics and to decipher nscriptions he found there.

Eventually, Jerome gave up hedonistic ways and embarked on a life of holiness. To free himself from worldly attachments, he went to the desert. "In this exile and prison to which through fear of Hell I had voluntarily condemned myself," he writes to a friend (according to an article at Catholic Online), "with no other company but scorpions and wild beasts, I many times imagined myself watching the dancing of Roman maidens as if I had been in the midst of them. My face was pallid with fasting, yet my will felt the assaults of desire. In my cold body and my parched flesh, which seemed dead before its death, passion was still able to live."

Jerome's memories of his past tempted him. His desires distracted him. They made him restless. Perhaps especially in the desert, Jerome wished most intensely for days gone by. He longed to be there again. He yearned to experience the joys and beauty and camaraderie he had known -- even if only now in his imagination.

Jerome knew, though, that in order to find true contentment, he must purge his heart and senses of these attachments, wash his memories of their grip on his will, and hone disciplines that would take him farther from the lures of the world and nearer to God.

From his experience in the desert, Jerome wrote further to his friend, "Alone with the enemy, I threw myself in spirit at the feet of Jesus, watering them with my tears, and tamed my flesh by fasting whole weeks. I am not ashamed to disclose my temptations, though I grieve that I am not now what I then was."

It seems that in yesterday's post, I was clinging sentimentally to distracting temptations and grieving that I am not today what I was several years ago. Even several years ago, as I recall, I longed for other aspects of days gone by and grieved that I was not what I was several years before then. And so on, and so on.... Several years from now, who knows what I will grieve?

The path to contentment is fraught with detachment.

I pray that the next time I long for those people, places and things that once were commonplace in my day and easily within my reach, I may turn my expectations, desires and tears to the feet of Christ on the Cross and be contented to be there among the souls who adore only Him.

by Nancy E. Thoerig (c) October 1, 2008

picture of St. Jerome from Catholic Online

Contentment sometimes hard to find

"Situated just five miles from home, it may as well be on the other side of the moon."

Whenever I feel lonely or neglected, forgotten or rejected, I try to image the monks at the Carthusian monastery in the French Alps – isolated, silent, self-reliant, resourceful, creative, intuitive, loving – and I hope to mimic them.

Staying contented in my isolation is very difficult at times. People (even doctors) still fear or avoid me because of my heart condition: In their view, I’m different; I’m complex; I’m a risk. When people find out about “the heart,” their views of me suddenly shift: They don’t want to get involved, or be called upon or drawn in, or have any sort of responsibility if an emergency should arise. I understand: “If I didn’t have all this,” I say, “I wouldn’t want it, either.” And I never expect anyone to want to be around “the heart thing.” I know it’s scary for them. It scares me, too.

So I’ve done most everything in my life on my own, by myself. Travel. Shows. Shop. Worship. You name it. I’ve been a lone ranger -- except when my mother would go along: Ma could face the heart condition.

She hasn’t done so well, though, embracing my vision loss – a complication of my second heart surgery to correct birth defects and their effects -- in April 2006. I have a teensy bit of vision remaining in my left eye; and I’ve honed intuitive skills for utilizing my intellect to interpret visual and sound and tactile information. So I navigate extremely well in my familiar environment; and I orient quickly and find my way smoothly in new ones. But of course, I can’t drive. And I can’t see enough detail to enjoy the scope and beauty of my surroundings. So travel is no longer practical – for me or, consequently, for Ma. And shopping is no fun anymore. I still enjoy shows, though, and church.

I would love to go to a Celtic Christmas show at the local university. Situated just five miles from home, it may as well be on the other side of the moon. Even volunteers won’t drive me to and fro because they are afraid of liability. (I never thought of such a thing when I drove people in my car….)

I am fortunate to have found someone who will drive me to doctors’ appointments. I have two dedicated drivers: One takes me out of town; the other drives me to nearby but out-of-county appointments. Otherwise, I utilize a transport system through the county government to get to in-county daytime appointments and to shop and run routine errands. And once a week, I go with my brother and sister-in-law to the supermarket; and they take me then to places along the way, if needed; and they take me to church.

There’s just no chance, though, to get out among crowds as I used to, and enjoy beautiful settings, and just relax and stretch my legs and my mind, and have some fun -- meeting new people and learning new things, or striking up probing or stimulating conversations.
I have been able to go to a retreat twice a year. My out-of-town driver takes me there (two hours from home) and drops me off and leaves me for the weekend; then he comes back and picks me up and brings me home. I’ve got friends there. I wish they were here.

by Nancy E. Thoerig 09-29-08

Photo of Contentment Island, New York, from http://www.country-living.com/