An eleven-year-old girl lived with her grandmother. Labeled "different," adjustment to school was not easy. Her mother was not a reliable presence. As if life is not tough enough, her father had been recently killed. She knew him only vaguely, and had not seen him in years.

In late October her school celebrated Día de Muertos (the Day of the Dead), the day to build private altars honoring the deceased; using sugar skulls, marigolds, and their favorite foods and beverages; a time for visiting graves with these gifts.

"What does it mean," the little girl asked a woman who volunteered at her school.

"It's a three day window of time when our ancestors who have died can come back. And we leave gifts for them."

The girl paused, "You mean, like my Dad?"

"Yes," answered the woman, "like your Dad."

"I get to keep his wallet," she said, her gladness unreserved. And then added, "I'm keeping the $60 that was in it." She paused, "Because he touched it."

"Life is difficult," Scott Peck's Road Less Traveled begins.

And even when we've finally gotten our "act together," or risk love or passion or delight or compassion or caring of any kind, we can break or fracture in the hidden places of our heart. 

So. What do we do?

I am drawn to this story Henri Nouwen tells about his time with the community at L'Arche...

There is one of my friends who is quite handicapped but a wonderful, wonderful lady.

She said to me, "Henri, can you bless me?" 

I remember walking up to her and giving her a little cross on her forehead.

She said, "Henri, it doesn't work. No, that is not what I mean."

I was embarrassed and said, "I gave you a blessing."

She said, "No, I want to be blessed."

I kept thinking, "What does she mean?"

We had a little service and all these people were sitting there. After the service I said, "Janet wants a blessing." I had an alb on and a long robe with long sleeves.

Janet walked up to me and said, "I want to be blessed." She put her head against my chest and I spontaneously put my arms around her, held her, and looked right into her eyes and said, "Blessed are you, Janet. You know how much we love you. You know how important you are. You know what a good woman you are."

She looked at me and said, "Yes, yes, yes, I know." I suddenly saw all sorts of energy coming back to her. She seemed to be relieved from the feeling of depression because suddenly she realized again that she was blessed. She went back to her place and immediately other people said, "I want that kind of blessing, too."  

Yes. 

I want that kind of blessing too. 

I'm keeping it, said the little girl, because he touched it.   

A good translation?  I'm keeping it... because he blessed it.

Here's the deal: This blessing is not separate from our broken and troubled lives.  On the contrary; we pass this blessing on to one another, even from our splintered and imperfect selves.  I can't tell someone what to do about his or her 115 problems, but maybe I can give a hug.  And in that hug is a blessing.  (It makes sense to me that the word salvation, from the Latin "salve," means a balm or ointment to heal.)

I think it is very important that when we are in touch with our

blessedness, that we can then bless other people.  Henri Nouwen

When my daughter was seven years old, says artist Howard Ikemoto, she asked me one day what I did at work. I told her I worked at a college, that my job was to teach people how to draw. She stared back at me, incredulous, and said, "You mean they forget?"

It's easy to lose, isn't it? Easy to lose what it means to be touched, to be loved, to be held, to be important... to be blessed.

We are broken people. You and I know that we are broken. A lot of our brokenness has to do with relationships. If you ask me what it is that makes us suffer, it is always because someone couldn't hold onto us, or because someone hurt us. I know each of us can point to a brokenness in our relationships... with our wife or husband, with our father or mother, with our children, with our friends, with our lovers.
Wherever there is love, there is also pain.
Wherever there are people who really care for us, there is also the pain of sometimes not being cared for... enough. That is enormous.

Or sometimes it is about "disconnecting" from those parts of us that feel inauthentic or false.  Because authenticity is the currency for life and love.

But let's be honest.  We miss one another... we miss opportunities to connect, or opportunities to love and to touch. But here's the part that befuddles me.  So often when we do touch (or are blessed)--and it does happen very often--we don't see it.  

Ahhh, but when we do see it (even when we are broken)... it is the very kiss of God.

I spent Saturday in New Jersey at the College of Saint Elizabeth (named for Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton), for their annual Spiritual Convocation. We concluded with Mass in the Holy Family Chapel built around the turn of the century. In this elegant and majestic space, the music rises and surrounds. I close my eyes and let it wash over me.