Her Story continued in a Journal of 3 Books (1975 - 1978)

    October 7 came and almost went in misery as the Lord led me into the desert.    What are you about? I cried — He led me up to the throne of His Father and those few steps I had hoped to make myself turned instead to a great roll and tumble.    In this fashion I landed at the foot of the throne, all red-faced with tears and embarrassment.   It was not at all what I had expected — for, as most of us do, I looked about for the obvious — visions, angels, ecstasies, etc.   Finding myself instead in what I at first mistook to be the ordinary, I was quite disappointed. 

    Now then, I ask you, can't you find the time to entertain the noblest, richest man among men — Jesus Christ, Son of God?     For He's dying to be with you — quite literally He did, actually — and He'd love to hear your jokes and see your house and meet your family.    And if you invited Him in you might actually get to like Him quite a bit and find yourself quite in agreement with Him. 

     There is nothing dull or boring about Jesus — He has to perfection that quality we so admire in others — interest in us. 

So much so that association with Him very quickly brings us to the conclusion that His interest in us is of much more value than our own interest in ourselves.   (for where does that ever get us — self-love always ends in despair as that which we love in that case is never a worthy object of our love).   So we abandon ourselves to Him and how happy we become…         

    And I know of what I speak — for seeing His Resurrection meant, in my case, losing the greater part of that hideous self-consciousness which hindered my every step towards Him.  Losing my ego in other words — with the fond desire of replacing it with His. 

    Well, here I must say that if you have managed to traverse the first part of my story with patience, you must already be on your way to sainthood — for it is so badly put and does such poor justice to the One who inspired me…  As I turn the page of each day of my life I sum it up with a sigh.  But Jesus always smiles and says, "The story gets better as you go along." 

     I wanted to be St. Francis of Assisi, you see — but I really don't like animals all that much and I always forget to water my plants and I'm not an anti-intellectual as indeed he was — little-known fact but verifiable, à mon avis. 

    I do love French, though.

    1975 was a very good year for me.  This year started off at a party with friends — probably the first time ever for me. 

    Right now Peter is vacuuming the rug — why does this upset me?  I can't figure out why that irritates me as much as it does – though I really appreciate it — him doing it, I mean. 

    The weather suddenly turned freezing cold January 1st  We both went for a walk last night — the stars were very bright and the palm trees were quite dark against the evening sky.  I wondered if Bethlehem ever looked like this — minus the cars and telephone wires of course. 

      I need to calm down — it's very hard for me to work this week.  My work just isn't as good when I'm nervous.  I had two migraines in my sleep which upset me both days — really threw me off. 

     Every once in a while, usually when I'm alone, but not always, I suddenly become aware of being watched — that I am the object of someone else's poignant moment — that I am being loved, sadly but affectionately.   The tumble of my thoughts is brushed aside and for a moment I am laid bare. 

     I have come to the conclusion: Je suis folle.   But, I don't care anymore — it's a pleasant folly, this, and it doesn't seem to be doing me any harm — on the contrary actually.   I'm very happy.  I don't believe in the world anymore.  M. Courtois [KC's Art Teacher at Newton College] was right when he said I would become successful when I became cynical. 

    For a sinner I spend an awful lot of time thinking about God and I talk to Him in my head all the time.    I thought before there were too many dimensions to what my Voice was saying but I'm beginning to see it's quite possible.   I think all the philosophers and other pundits will get quite a shock when they die for they will find that nothing is as simple as the heaven they'd mapped out on earth. 

    Actually I believe philosophy will lead you sooner to atheism and science than to God. 

    I kept wanting God to speak to me obviously — and I thought He was — but He wasn't at all. 

      Do you know, little things are harder for me to do well than big ones are.   Did Jesus lovingly call me His little coward — how apt.

    I'm listening to my Jim Croce record — it reminds me of home — tears are in my heart — clouds over sunny days, streaked streets, railway tracks, telephone poles, Hyde Park Square, my mother as a young girl, my father as a young man.  The 66 Ford I drove to school, the radio playing — my God, I believed in my future freedom and sure enough, you were listening.   Pine trees, sugar cookies and birthday cakes — my heart used to ache with love for the sun, the trees, the melting snow, fresh-baked bread, migraines on Sunday afternoon. 

    That radio used to play my sorrows away — I was such an impressionable kid — every sensation was impressed on me like a cookie cutter cutting out scents, sights, sounds…  

Every excess was trimmed away, so my memories are pure.   I mean, I remember so clearly, sometimes I really see that time is a circle — that I'm still 18, 19, 20 and life will always be spent in agony with hope. 

   I have been working and my neck aches.  There's a pile of clothes on the bed to be sorted, just like the many thoughts I have. 

   I was thinking — that perhaps it is the burden of guilt that we must accept when we love Jesus that is hardest to bear — for if you take all into account — his suffering, his death, the sad black eyes on plaster statues, the bleeding heart — all tends to weigh you down with unbearable guilt. 

   What is a person?   Are his dimensions borrowed from God — as an inch is a measurement of space, so is a mile? 

As a man is a measurement of love, so is God?   But many inches make a mile – many people do not make a God.  In what way was man created in the image and likeness of God — in what way woman?   Is man and woman together the closest approximation? 

 My marriage has only helped me to be better, over the long run, not worse. 

   Isn't it about time we reviewed the nature of marriage — isn't it long overdue? 

   I feel very depressed — I have been a lot lately — I'm sure it's partly the grey weather — the rain which I'm now so unused to. 

   Also, I didn't go to confession.  Which wasn't so bad in itself as I will go this weekend with Peter, but I didn't do anything of value, instead.  It was just a put-off. 

   I must admit I don't much liking going to confession.  I've just about convinced myself that I'm a terrible person — and yet I don't want to go to confession! 

   I want to be good so bad it hurts — what English — yet I never make it — I can never pat myself on the back and say "K.C., you were good that time."  And I have a sneaking suspicion I never will be able to. 

   Do you know what God's grace does offer though? — The ability to try.  And a child-like ability to accept failure without letting despair take over.  So that one keeps on trying because one knows one's efforts are appreciated and one's failures are forgiven. 

   God could touch-up this "painting" of mine with a few quick, masterful strokes, but He knows how badly I want to trace it out myself.  I have only myself to blame if my life is smudged, muddy, and incredibly slow. 

   I am only happy in church these days — and with Peter.  

   We were married the first week in March — a Saturday — the next week was one of the loveliest, spring weeks to ever come so early in the month.  

   We had our first fight Sunday morning when I discovered I could cook and didn't want any dumb husband interfering with my creativity.   Of course, dumb husband had been cooking for himself for years and only wanted to help out — it was the first in a long series of misunderstandings.   We had incredible disagreements.   We tore each other apart, literally, most of the first year.   And then we began to calm down. 

   Interspersed with many a bad day, were many good moments.   The town where we lived, Marlboro, was beautiful, out in the country.  I spent many happy hours exploring in the '63 Oldsmobile my uncle Billy had given Peter. 

   Today is my sister's 16th birthday.  I called her up to wish her well…  but I learned that my father is as mad as ever.  

   Since I was a small child I have hated the way my father treats my mother.  I had been of the opinion that they had begun to settle into middle age with some degree of serenity — but that was because I wanted so desperately to be able to believe the "party" line. 

   Reading the beginning of this book I am incredibly embarrassed at the excessive piosity of manner with which I expressed myself a year ago.  Yet, this journal is worthy for nothing else but it's honesty.  I will not delete one word, nor deny the frame of mind which produced these efforts. 

   My continuing quest for God has brought me through all sorts of mystical styles, none of which ultimately suit me, for, I see after years of private study that my experience is very much my own, and mustn't be masked by sentimental verbiage. 

   Indeed, I believe this is the will of the one who inspires me — we have finally reached an agreement.  For He will not let me disavow the side or facet of Him which I have discovered, no matter how fearful I might be of theological scorn or condemnation. 

   Truly, I have been irresponsible in this regard. 

   Why shouldn't I write the truth, what do I have to fear?  No one may ever 

read any of this anyway and even if they do they may justifiably doubt it's validity.  Still, I would like it to hold that they could not doubt my integrity, nor my devotion to the truth.  I also prefer that all doubts be cast on me, not on the God I wish to serve.  It would be better for all this to [be] destroyed than for anyone to move away from their search for truth because of it. 

   I could go on endlessly apologizing for the awfulness of what I write, but once again, it would be better for me to not write at all than to waste time that way. 

   In one short year I've moved from excessive, Bleeding Heart piety, through cynicism, rediscovery, more cynicism, despair, anxiety, rediscovery, and finally, to acceptance. 

   Whether there will be still more cycles or not, I couldn't say.   I certainly hope not, but I doubt I'll be allowed to rest.   The search is constant, never-ending, and in fact that is one of my convictions: that the search will be perpetual.   The search for the infinite Divine must be infinite itself.   Finite man has been granted indefinite leave from his sin and mortality by the graces of the Resurrection. 

   Peter woke me up this morning in the midst of bad dreams.  After he left I fell back asleep and must've worked out some heroic solution since I slept quite late and woke up more cheerfully than I have in weeks. 

   I walked out to the kitchen which was filled with a strange glowing light due to the fact that I'd pulled the outer curtains against the cold last night.   Usually they're open and the light comes flooding in but not this morning.  Peter brought in the stone lion with its spiky plant set into its back and set it among the rocks we collected at Boron.  With the slanting, mysterious glow haloing it, the lion looked sphinx-like and very alive, and I expected him to grumble some message of wisdom, or chide me for getting up so late.  

   Like the Victorians it has never been hard for me to assign life to inanimate objects.  Disney also had this talent, to a frightening degree.  Scientists often discuss the activities of atoms with the same sort of creativity, assigning them personalities, societies, and wayward behavior — as with all such fantastic worlds, a microcosm of our own.