There was a time when I disliked the notion of everyone who believes in Jesus is automatically an adopted child of God. In our family, built by both adoption and birth, to say that everyone was adopted somehow made the adoption of our children less special. It’s similar to the notion of every child who played on any soccer team getting a trophy. If everyone is a winner, then no one is. No one stands out. If everyone is special, then no one is. If everyone is adopted, then there is nothing significant or special about our adopted children’s entrance into our family. I’ve since realized that I’d been looking at this idea the wrong way.
Meeting Jesus at the Kitchen Sink - By Linda Padgett
There are many great places where prayer seems right. Walking on my favorite trail calls my focus upward and invites a chorus of praise in my heart. Nature feeds my soul. Peace is what I gain there.
Kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament, either at mass or in adoration, calms me and sheds light on what’s really important. Being physically close to Jesus fills me. Perspective is what I gain there. Yet, the kitchen sink, that is where I receive therapy.
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I watch with detachment as the radioactive tracer is injected into my arm. I can’t think about why I’m here and what it means to have cancer, but I do. Everything about cancer is terrifying: not knowing how much of my body it has invaded, the treatment, the financial implications of treatment, and possible resulting death from it. In order to live through this, I know that I must endure horrendous physical discomfort, and I’m not sure if I can take it.
But I have to—for my girls. I turn page after page in a magazine that wouldn’t capture my interest even under normal circumstances while I wait for the tracer to move through my body. My brain hops from one terrifying thought to the next in a disoriented manner so rapidly that I can’t seem to land on one particular idea. I’m not sure how many times I mindlessly flip through the same magazine before I am led to the PET Scan room.
It’s another rainy Saturday and I’m thinking about last Saturday and where I was. Not home, like now, in my house, warm, with food in the next room, a dry roof over my head, and a dry floor under my feet. This time last weekend, I was at the Mass Maritime Academy in Bourne. negotiating my way through the rain and around the growing puddles that dominated the PMC, food tent and walkways. I was thankful I had remembered a rain jacket and my sandals are waterproof. I would remain mostly dry though dinner and I would have dry clothes for the Sunday ride into Provincetown. But what about Saturday’s ride: Wellesley to Bourne? Yes, it was wet, but it was so much more.