As part of my “I-am-in-the-recovery-stage” of ovarian cancer, I am rereading my Heather King books. A recovering alcoholic, ex-barfly, and Catholic convert, King shares insights about relationships, the need for healing, and the importance of discipleship in the Catholic Church that continue to resonate with me.
As I was reading, I struggled to change the color of my Kindle highlights.
Now, those of you recovering from chemo with some, shall we say delicately, “cognitive decline,” know that accomplishing ANYTHING is a real miracle. To be able to cook! To cut up fruit for a fruit salad! To walk 20-30 laps on the deck while listening to the warblers and the Baltimore oriole! Bliss, utter bliss.
But the darned highlights on my Kindle stubbornly refused to change from urine yellow (see Roz Chast’s brilliant book, “What I Hate From A-Z”) to something less horrid, less like a body fluid, and closer to a burnt orange or a sky blue. I poked at the page icon at the top of the screen. I pressed the square with an arrow going upwards. I fumbled around with no good result. Finally, when looking at yet another yellow paragraph, I lightly touched the highlight and behold! Up came the color options! They were hiding right before my eyes.
How often does this happen in our prayer lives? How often do we think, “If only I do it right, I will feel God’s blessed presence. If I kneel for so many minutes per day, I will sense God’s warm support. If I say the Divine Office. If I do the Examen at night — all will be well,” as if God’s presence depended on our spiritual efforts. I was certainly guilty of thinking this way when I discovered I had cancer.
Having just come through a series of rugged months, I have found my own prayer life switching from deep contemplation and sitting with the mystery of the Holy One, to other more ritualistic observances: Making the sign of the cross over my port before the nurses appeared. Praying the Rosary when they hooked the chemo up to my body. Carrying a small pocket shrine (from Etsy!) in my purse, which I held in my lap when I felt nauseous, frightened, or in pain. Even so, I learned that what I needed to do was — press more lightly! Stop exerting so much energy, Annie; stop trying so hard.
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I found that in sitting quietly I could find the heart-place where words sifted through the pulsing muscle to rest at the center of my being. I discovered the stillness that opened me to God’s mercy and grace. I breathed and touched softly, for just under the surface of my prayer lay infinite meaning and warm presence. And, in a color I liked.
