Bless This House
A diary entry from September 17, 2022
My neighbors P. and S., who moved into the neighborhood only months before me, have invited me to their house blessing. I’m grateful to get the opportunity to make new friends.
A few years ago, I read a memoir by Hollywood screenwriter Shonda Rhimes who wrote hit shows like Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How to Get Away with Murder. Despite her very visible job, she used to be an extreme introvert and would turn down nearly all invitations and offers for public exposure she received. Then, one memorable Thanksgiving, one of her sisters resentfully said to her (I paraphrase): “You have the greatest opportunities; stuff that other people would kill for. And you say no to everything.”
That hit Shonda so hard that she decided that for an entire year, she’d force herself to say “Yes” to any and all invitations and opportunities that fell into her lap. It was a year that dramatically transformed her life.
Just like for Shonda Rhimes, I have decided that this will be my year of “Yes.” I will go wherever Jesus sends me; I will accept any and all invitations; and if opportunities offer themselves to me, I won’t turn them down, no matter how challenging.
We’re about ten people at the home blessing, including three priests. Two of them, who are Franciscan Friars TOR from the university, will perform the ritual. They’re two very distinct characters. Father J. is quiet, somber, dignified, like I would expect from a friar (I’m still not clear on what makes them different from monks). Father N., the older one, is sweet and joyful and incredibly bubbly.
P. asks us all to briefly introduce ourselves. When I tell the CliffNotes version of how I got led to Steubenville by the Holy Spirit, Father N. throws his arms in the air and yells, “YES!” bouncing so hard that his outstretched hands are hitting the ceiling fan. His enthusiasm makes me smile; it’s so endearing. He’s like a little kid, one of those childlike believers who Jesus says will inherit the kingdom of God.
Also on the agenda for the night: potluck dinner and a Christian movie. This is fun. I’m standing at the buffet casually chatting with Father N. when the Holy Spirit pokes me.
Ask him, He says.
Ask him what? I shoot back in my mind.
To be your spiritual director.
I’m mortified. I’ve been talking, what, all of five minutes with Father N.? He’s never going to say yes. Also, there’s this other friar who I thought might be my future spiritual director, but I haven’t talked to him; I don’t even know his name.
He’s the one. Ask him now, the Holy Spirit pushes.
I relent. Thy will be done.
“So, Father N.,” I begin. “Do you ever do spiritual direction? I will need a new spiritual director…”
“Well,” he says humbly, “I don’t have real training in spiritual direction, but I do it for a few students, so if you want me to, I’d be willing to give it a shot.”
My immediate thoughts, in that order, are Oh, thank you, what a relief!, immediately followed by I can’t believe he just said yes just like that, and Wow, he must not have a lot to do.
Of course. As Groucho Marx said, “I don’t want to be a member of a club that would have me as a member.” Obviously, I’m still struggling with that old self-esteem problem because somehow I feel this wasn’t hard enough.
I know that if Father N. had hesitated a little longer, had played a little harder to get, I would have appreciated it more. If he’d been extremely reluctant or turned me down altogether, I’d now feel like he’d be the only spiritual director for me.
In my head, I’m berating myself for my colossal stupidity.
At night, back at my house, I perform my daily bedtime ritual by picking a random Bible verse in the hopes for some wisdom from VatiGod. I especially ask about guidance for my pet situation.
I left both Winston the cat and Sammy the dog in Vermont with K., telling myself that they both know and love him, and that it would be much better for them to stay at their familiar place. Winston is used to being outdoors, and that wouldn’t work here in this more suburban area. Sammy is very old and frail and wouldn’t be able to climb the many stairs in my new house. Plus, he’s getting more and more incontinent and can’t be left alone for long stretches of time.
But if I’m totally honest with myself, I have to admit that the truth is that I just don’t want to be burdened with their care in my new digs. In the last couple of weeks, the fact that I left them behind has weighed heavily on me because I learned that K., who was refinishing all the wood floors in the old house, has been keeping Sammy in the garage for a week and has left Winston outside to his own devices, except for twice-a-day feeding times.
I was horrified hearing this… but not horrified enough to take the 12-hour trip to Vermont and get them. Besides, K. said the floors are now done and Sammy is back in the house. Winston has gone AWOL but will hopefully show up again in the next few days.
As I open the Bible, to my shock I see that I picked Daniel 5, the story of Babylonian ruler Belshazzar, a rich and debauched king, who gave a banquet to his court. During the drunken party, sacred vessels from the Jewish temple, stolen by Nebuchadnezzar in 586 BC, were used in a blasphemous manner. At the height of the festivities, an invisible hand writes on the wall the mysterious words, Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin, which the prophet Daniel later translated to mean roughly, You have been weighed and found wanting.
The condemning words are burning in my mind. I’m sorry, VatiGod, that I’m so selfish. I don’t deserve any of the blessings you’ve been sending along so plentifully. I don’t deserve Father N. Please give me a chance to do better. And please enable me do better—because without you, I’m neither good nor strong enough.