“I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least.”
― Dorothy Day
This, of course, is correct, and precisely why I have to go to confession on Saturday. I have to confess to loving Harry Reid very, very, very little and badly.
Happy Birthday to Servant of God Dorothy Day; Benedictine Oblate, fangirl of St. Therese of Lisieux; an “obedient daughter of the Church” who loved the Mass, had no time for bullshit and managed to commingle Catholic teaching about the Eucharist, the sanctity of life, the dignity of the human person, prayer, worship and social justice without hating anyone else in the process.
We have an awful lot to learn from her — she may well be a true saint for the age. I am reading, very slowly, The Duty of Delight and Day has a great deal to say that is useful, good and timely, and sometimes just so helpfully human:
“Every time I get impatient with him, he does something which arouses my admiration…”
“So often guilty of some faults I should correct in others. Wast of time, idle talk, neglect of others.”
“Our house will hold just so many, we can feed just so many, an dafter that we must say no. It makes us realize how little we can do. It is a constant grief and a humbling of our pride. One woman said to me, “if I knew how sensitive you were, I would not have told you my troubles.” So we cannot show how we suffer with them, either. We make them feel we are adding to the sum total of suffering instead of lightening it.”
“In our group of young ones, they find love in each other, somewhat in the poor, those of them who serve the line, for instance. But only [the poor] they see around them. They give up Confession but receive. They “feel” they are right, so they are right. Meanwhile, they despise the old, who have made such a mess of the world, and with the old — the ancient Church itself. They want to rebuild the Church in the shell of the old…”
And this which — in a way — may speak to all those who are struggling with recent events:
One of the objections to suffering which we do not admit is that it is undignified. It is not a wound heroically received in battle. Hay fever, colds in the head, bilious attacks, poison ivy, such like irritations which are sometimes even worse than a severe illness are to say the least petty and undignified. But in reality it takes heroic virtue to practice patience in little things, things which seem little to others but which afflict one with unrest and misery. Patience with each other and with each other’s bickerings. We can even offer up, however, our own lack of peace, our own worry. Since I offered all the distractions, turmoil and unrest I felt at things going askew a few weeks ago, my petty fretting over this one and that one, I have felt much better and more able to cope with everything.