Buried Alive

For three days, beginning Friday or maybe even late Thursday night, I have had the distinct experience of being buried alive.

By this morning at Mass, I breathed the dirt. I could hear it and taste it.

Last night the torments pitched fury in my mind and emotions; there seemed no way out. No way out except to think maybe I could save my life by avoiding the Catholic "world."

There is, I am finding, a Catholic "world." It is not at all like the world's "world" but yet is a place of busy people busy doing good deeds and good efforts for the world's "world."

Then I realized that being buried alive is a place of no escape--not if I want to do God's will. He who loses his life will save it; and he who saves his life will lose it. I do not want to lose my life so I must not save it. Do you understand?

To not acquiesce to God's will is death far worse than being buried alive.

I have cried much lately, for months, actually. Perhaps it is the effect of gradually being buried alive, and now of emphatically realizing the reality. What it feels like to be buried alive--and to know that there is no credible escape. The dirt presses down upon my chest. The tears make mud. Not even anyone much to explain except in brief passing after Mass--telling the priest (who spoke of how we must say "yes" to God with courage!) that I am buried alive with no way out except the temptations to flee the Church, as if that is possible for anyone who desires to be in God's will!

He tells me that God will give me the graces necessary and of his father who worked in the coal mines after immigrating from Ireland. "Everyone should have to breathe a basket of dust," said his father. The priest then says God will lead me step by step even though it seems all darkness.

I tell this priest that I see where God is leading: to solitude. And I add that the solitude is so alone.

He nods and says God will give me the graces necessary. I can tell he is not surprised by where God is leading me.

A few years ago I thought I should be a hermit. I took private vows with my old Irish priest--my "da" who is a grand contemplative of gentlemanly order. But later, I had to give up the formal aspects of this life, and I doubted I was cut out for it. I tend to come alive when with people--people who accept me and people who don't even comprehend that there is anythong to accept or reject. I figured maybe it was the people who rejected me that caused me to latch onto the idea of hermit life as a vocation.

I moved. In the next setting, it was a priest who kept shutting me down from being active in the Catholic "world." But later, I thought this priest, beset by serious problems, was the reason and that God had not ordained that I be buried alive but rather was the priest's choice.

But in the past three days, I see the Hand of God on the shovel as the dirt surrounds me, covers me, overtakes and suffocates from outside. The inside is still very much alive.

With each shovelful, I know. Dirt splatters and spells it all out. The rains came yesterday and cemented the wet clay tomb. Truly, there is no way out.

Nor should there be, I guess. At Communion time, amidst tears, I bowed before the living Christ in the Eucharist, held in the fingers of the priest, and I said "Amen" but also said with equal tenor: I accept. Also with the living Blood of Christ, I bowed and said "Amen I Accept."

The shovelsful of dirt say this: Too much chatter in word, thought and deed. Too much criticism from others helps you detach from them and stay in your place. Too much trying to check out the world. Too much wandering and wishing, wishy-washy.

St. Augustine quote said this: "Dost thou wish to rise, begin by going down."

Breviary this morning says this: "They are happy who, putting all their trust inthe cross, have plunged into the water of life."

Two women at lunch on Friday said this: "We are busy, busy, busy and proud, proud, proud and Who-who's who know it!"

One woman in the parking lot yesterday said: "I am telling you how to live your life because I live mine so well and I drink holy water and pray seven rosaries and go to many Masses and volunteer at a nursing home and do pious gestures and know that your pain is not from God and I am telling you to do as I do and will you do as I say?"

This morning, after checking with the Cathedral Rector as to what he recommends, to this woman who I saw in the parking lot, I said, "Have you noticed that I never approach you? I ask, now, that you please leave me alone."

For this is what God ordains for me and has, but I had to find out for sure.

And the assurety is so very painful! The assurety is knowing I am being buried alive! Yes, alive still but being buried--already buried!

It is the water of dust. It is the necessary beginning by going down.

Thursday night one who is trained in such matters but experienced not, expressed his fears of now not being esteemed, of not being listened to, of not being somebody. And why should he be? He entered into adult life as a wolf in sheep's clothing, and now the lambs' wool is stripped and he stands naked as he is, and is being reborn into the beginnings of health. The wool he will wear will be what it is.

Is this not the case for each of us? Who do we think we are? I asked in my heart what this soul expected, as he had prayed finally to take up his own cross. But I do understand. The words and the reality are like shovel hitting dirt.

Being buried alive is a reality if one offers to lose his life to God. Some buried alive; others are not but allowed to live in the busy world doing good, or doing bad in some cases. But those of us who are selected to be buried alive must trust that we will learn to breathe dirt deeply and easily, by the help of God. God help me.