Healing and Repair: Lesson from the Compost Pile

Healing and Repair: Lesson from the Compost Pile

During my journey as a working mother, I often felt broken and in need of repair. But I learned so much about God’s love, mercy, and care for me during the healing process.

“…Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” Psalm 30:5

Before the cell phone era, I had a full-time career, two young children, a husband who frequently worked overseas for long periods of time, and a seven-hour drive to my family support system. Feeling sorry for myself with too much work, too little time and overwhelming fatigue, I sat in my cubicle crying. I felt like garbage and wondered when relief might magically appear.

In His wisdom, God inspired me through unlikely sources – the compost pile and my mother. I was into gardening at the time and had begun composting. Composting piles are not a pretty sight when they are being newly formed.  They smell bad. But, as time passes, and the garbage piles up, heat and air and other matter work their magic to change it to a rich, black sweet-smelling substance that provides nourishment for other plant life to grow.

I was eating an orange for lunch one day, and as I peeled the skin and cleaned the segments of connective threads and pith, I realized that in the end, the peel and seeds are not waste. They are food for the compost, which, while in the transformation process, is messy and requires regular upkeep.

“Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. (Psalm 42:6)

My soul needed regular upkeep too, and that included nourishing it with scripture.  I read the New Testament mostly, but my mother loved the Psalms, and I never realized what richness, consolation and beauty they contained until we had a conversation about them. Remembering her advice to always give praise, no matter what, I made the compost connection as I bit into each piece of the orange. As the juice exploded in my mouth, I swallowed the sweetness along with my bitter-blue feelings. The peel and seeds became heralds of better things to come.  My poem below, Citrus Blues, was the fruit of that transformative day.

“And he who sat upon the throne said, ‘Behold, I make all things new.’…these words are trustworthy and true.” Revelation 21:5

 

Citrus Blues

 

Beyond the wax-like skin,

behind the rind,

beneath connective fibers,

each cell within the whole bleeds

one by one into invading atmosphere.

 

Dissected now,

each segment swallowed by the cavern

cries its essence

bittersweet into the void.

 

Peelings and pulp discarded

and undigested seeds

(food for the worms)

shall one day make a flower grow.

 

Copyright 2023 Paula Veloso Babadi

Flammable

Flammable

Our words and actions matter to others.  When the natives in Malta took care of Paul and companions, they had no idea of the recent hardships at sea or the blessings they would receive when the chief’s father and many others were cured of illness. Can we say we are as hospitable in our everyday dealings?

 

The islanders showed us unusual kindness. They built a fire and welcomed us all because it was raining and cold.  Acts 28:2

 

In nature, the careless toss of a match or neglect of a dying campfire can wreak havoc and destruction. That same carelessness with words can cause just as much damage and inflame a person’s emotional state. Today, hurtful rhetoric is everywhere. How do we get past the politics, the hate, the fight mentality? We must start somewhere, one encounter at a time.

 

Some years ago, my husband had to undergo a procedure.  He was afraid and in pain.  When the nurse at the outpatient facility was brusque with his questions and seemingly impatient, he lost his cool and began raising his voice. He became angry and seemed inconsolable, until the head nurse appeared in the doorway and gently pulled him to the back kindly talking him out of his feverish pitch. I thought how understanding she was, how insightful to see beyond his ire to recognize the emotions behind the outburst.

 

I questioned my own responses on other occasions when confronted with irate people and decided then and there I would look beyond the harsh words and return them with gentleness. It’s not always an easy thing to do.  Instead of returning the heat of the fire, I want to return a heart burning with the same love and kindness our Lord has for each of us.

 

My prayer for creation is that we strive to soothe and nurture this earth and each other – and if inevitable fires do ensue, may we focus on new growth arising from the ashes.

 

During the procedure, I penned my thoughts, and the following poem is the fruit of that encounter.

 

Flammable

Incendiary par with war-time evening news,
Coals heaped upon a head already burning-
Caution cries to censor words we choose
That set aflame the limbic system churning.
.
Kind response is water quenching fire –
A touch, a smile can cool the hottest ire.
In the end it’s all about the fear, the pain
That spoken words can soothe like water’s springs or
Aggravate like biting fire’s rain.
.
Partake of introspection if you dare
And count today times you’ve said
“I don’t care.”

 

Copyright 2022 by Paula Veloso Babadi

Thickets

Thickets are the middle stage of nature’s marvelous development of a forest. From a clear and open space, seeds of grasses, weeds and wildflowers take root and create a meadow that soon fosters shrubs and small trees. Eventually, through a process of change that means the dying of some to make room for new growth, a forest is born. Miriam Webster defines thicket as “a dense growth of shrubbery or small trees” and “something resembling a thicket in density or impenetrability.” Sometimes, the heavy overgrowth of daily life can close us in, encroach on our spirit. Along that path there have been thickets, veils, barriers of all kinds. We see thickets with our eyes. But we feel the shrouded thickness of unseen veils with our hearts. Relationships can sometimes challenge us with an invisible thicket that blocks a clear path if we let it. I wrote the poem, “Thickets” when I was much younger and didn’t have the benefit of countless spiritual retreats and parish Bible studies.

Have no anxiety about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  (Philippians 4:6-7, NRSVCE)

I’ve come from the carefree meadow of my youth and am winding my way through life’s thickets which led me to the words of Isaiah –

Thou dost keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusts in thee.  (Isaiah 26:3, NRSVCE)

The tangled journey is all part of a grand design, and with God, nothing is impenetrable or impossible when He resides in the “thick of it” – not even the unseen veils covering wounded people. In the loving care of our Creator, we can walk through anything. I choose to walk through the thickets with Him by my side.

…And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age. (Matthew 28:20, NRSVCE)

 

Thickets

(Thoughts on Renoir’s “On the Terrace”)

There is a curtain green-thick and tangled
that hides us from the blue of other sides.
.
There is a veil –fine, frail, colorless –
that keeps me from her pale-white touch.
.
I clasp a brown-warm basket and cast my gaze
into the empty space,
while she, unseeing
looks away to weary reds and yellows.
.
The green-thick and tangled curtain
that hides us from the blue of other sides
is easier to pass through
than the veil between us.

Except for the Lord.

Copyright 2022 by Paula Veloso Babadi

Lessons from the Ditch

I’m glad I was paying attention years ago when our beloved pastor at the time gave his homily on the Good Samaritan – today’s Gospel reading. You’ve all heard the account of Jesus explaining what it means to be a good neighbor (Luke 10:25-37). On that Sunday, Father Thanh proposed an entirely new perspective: we are the man in the ditch, and God is our merciful Samaritan.

 

Do not let the flood sweep over me, or the deep swallow me up, or the Pit close its mouth over me. Answer me, O Lord, for your steadfast love is good; according to your abundant mercy, turn to me. Psalm 69:15-16

 

The psalmist knew many perils lurk to rob us of possessions, joy, comfort and conscious living. He also knew God’s love and mercy are boundless. But we easily forget as we let our worries and anxieties bury us in our own ditches.  I got caught up in thieves’ traps many times in my life, and this special sermon woke me up.

From a young age I was taught to follow the directive to be a good neighbor, be kind, lend a helping hand. And it’s an important lesson. But as an adult in my golden years, the equally great lesson – trust in the love and mercy of my ultimate Good Samaritan became clear. He hears my deepest cries even when I cannot speak and reaches into the pit to lift me up when I cannot even move.

Father Thanh from all those years ago at St. Joseph’s parish in Mandarin, Florida, is now Bishop Thanh Thai Nguyen, Auxiliary Bishop of the Diocese of Orange in California. He is a true shepherd in the footsteps of our Lord as his reach across the years pulled me back to the notes I took during his deeply insightful sermon. As Catholic writers let’s always be ready to capture movements of the Holy Spirit – even during sermons. My poem is the fruit of his words and a receptive heart.

The Good Samaritan

by Paula Veloso Babadi

Waylaid by circumstance,

cast down

to eat dust

on deserted roads,

stripped and stricken

but not annihilated,

others pass by

until your holy hand

and gentle heart

bear me to refuge.

Mercy none else dealt.

Blessed by your benevolence,

healed at your bidding,

I dared not hope –

yet I am whole again.

forever I will seek

to be the Good Samaritan

and

the stranger saved by he

 

Copyright 2022 by Paula Veloso Babadi

The Gift of Red

2008-11-16 021Advent and Christmas were always bright and happy times in my childhood home.  While focus was on preparing for the coming of Christ, mixed in with that anticipation was the fun of decorating.  Red was everywhere and in every room.  My mother made sure our home reflected the joy heralded by the angels of peace on earth and goodwill to all men, with the manger scene a focal point.  We had red plaid table cloths in the dining room and playful elves hanging from every conceivable perch. I came to love the significance of all these bright red and green decorating traditions.

Several years ago, a cardinal perched outside my window one morning. He was a magnificent contrast against the small oak tree in my backyard, and reminded me of my father who faithfully put out black sunflower seeds (the best kind) for the cardinals gracing our home. My mother has kept a stained-glass cardinal on her bedroom window along with a myriad of colored-glass crucifixes, chalices, and other professions of her enduring faith.  She believes that my dad, long gone, signals to her when the cardinals come and visit.

So, my mind wandered the trail of how much the color red permeates our world and how God created so many variations for our delight.  Do you know how many names there are for this color called red?  I didn’t, and so I looked it up and daydreamed about the marvelous range of reds in existence.  But it was the deep scarlet of the cardinal that led me on a path to remember our Savior, not at His birth but at His redemptive sacrifice – and through my father – His teachings from the Sermon on the Mount.  At the end of the trail, one thing was crystal clear to me, one realization that I needed at the time; Jesus loves me , all of us, beyond our imagining, beyond all else in this created world.  I marvel at God’s wisdom in creating a small bird with such power to move the human heart, to lift our spirits toward heaven, and to give me memories of my devout parents.

The following poem was born from the gift of red given to me through inspiring parents.  What memories bring  warmth and comfort to you?  Feel free to share special holiday memories or traditions.

Cardinal Red

More than poinsettias and red curly-ribboned Christmas gifts,
more than glossy lacquered lines of red candy apples in the window,
more than clumsy Crayola-red shapes on a toddler’s first piece of art,
more than sumptuous strawberry-red berries begging to be tasted,
more than the competent clarity of fire engine reds racing to rescue,
the deep scarlet cardinal captures me
in the fleeting seconds of his landing,
in the sound of his song,
in the almost imperceptible rising and falling of his splendid chest.
He breathes life and bleeds red,
as red as the drops of blood2008-11-16 022
falling from our Savior’s wounds
and causes me to remember my father
quoting Matthew 6:26 from his red Douay-Rheims
“ Behold the birds of the air, for they neither sow,
nor do they reap, nor gather into barns;
and your heavenly Father feedeth them.
Are not you of much more value than they?”
In this cardinal red moment,
the two hundred and eighty four other shades
referenced in books
cannot compare.

 

 

Remembering Alzheimer’s Patients and their Caregivers

"Alzheimer's Patient" by Gelonida (Own work) [GFDL or CC BY 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

“Alzheimer’s Patient” by Gelonida (Own work) [GFDL or CC BY 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Remembering Alzheimer’s Patients
and their Caregivers

The poem below is NOT from an unknown author, as the graphic indicates. The writer of the poem is Owen Darnell. I am certainly not looking to NOT give credit where credit is due. Thank you, Mr. Darnell–your poem was a great comfort to me and others who have lived with Alzheimer’s patients on a 24/7 basis.

Image may contain: text

 Copyright 2017 Larry Peterson

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