Blessed Are the Effusive

One of my friends recently described me as effusive. Not just effusive once in a great while or now and then, mind you. But "characteristically effusive". Those were the very words. I laughed, well, effusively, at his words. For, alas, he's not wrong. I am afraid I could never be mistaken as a deep, silent, pool of mystery.

I gush, it’s true, sometimes aloud. Heeheehee, I am remembering even now a time I had coffee with this same friend and I think I talked the whole time and he just stared at me over his glasses in a bit of disbelief at how fast I was thinking and wanting to get my point across. To be fair, I hadn’t seen him in a while and I had much to say. He just smiled on in a kind of stupefied wonder, while desperately attempting to cling to the sides of my careening train of thought. I must say, God bless him for trying!

I adore adjectives - the more the better. Metaphors are always busy in my brain making the acquaintance of all those sense impressions crowding their way into my imagination and memory at lightning speed. I don’t think I’ve ever met a metaphor I didn’t like.

Effusive, though. To see the word said in writing - out loud, as it were, on a page - was a bit of a revelation.

I was thinking these thoughts this morning as I read with SUCH pleasure the, dare I say it, effusive Antiphon from the Canticle of Zechariah for St Martin’s feast.

"How happy is that man whose soul gains paradise! Angels rejoice, archangels sing praise, the company of virgins welcomes him, choirs of saints call out to him: Stay with us forever"!! (the exclamation marks are my own).

This overflows with joy. With finality. With finish line. With opened door. One might even envision hundreds of eager hands pulling dear Martin right off his feet and into the throng. I wanted very much to be a part of that scene! Oh my, in the worst way. It stirred up my effusiveness as nothing else can.

But in the end, I am not there yet. Martin ran his race. I am still running mine.

For you see, the down side of effusive natures is that we tend to spend it all in one place. So, our whole spiritual life is doggedly focused on trying to pace our enthusiasm. And by gum it, it is hard. Not to jump at every joy, every revelation, every golden tree in the park, every smell, sense impression, word of love, lovely conversation. We want to GUSH. It doesn't come from bad motivations, mind you. We want God to be known for the beauty He is. But all this gushing can exhaust the soul’s resources. It makes it go up and down and up and down. We must learn to pace the gush and slow it down a bit. We must save that exhausting effusiveness for Heaven - where none will ever tire of praising. But here and now we must pace or else we will not have energy for a spiritual journey that sometimes needs deep and solemn efforts far beyond anything effusive.

As a novice oblate of St Benedict, I was happy to hear that one of Benedict's favorite images is of the Lord "laden with promises, waiting for us at the end of our journey". The Father afar off waiting so anxiously for us. I think underneath all Benedict's calm, controlled, wise language dwells an effusive soul that learned how to wait and to pace itself through temptations, dryness, the weight of bad habits having to be shed as he dwelt and learned to pray in his cave on Mount Subiaco. This takes concentration and humility and a quiet diligence. It cannot often be disrupted or distracted by 'flights of fancy effusion' or it will be lost.

God of course will allow for times of holy effusiveness (he created us this way) - and that is the glory of the psalms sung in choir - or in the quiet of a morning, waiting for the sun to rise through my office window. The Divine Office is the consolation of the effusive soul trudging its way, deepening its resolve, waiting for eternal joys to come. The Father always gives me joy in his word. Seven times a day if I want it. I am learning slowly to hold it close when I must conquer myself, or do something difficult. It's like a little spring singing underneath the somewhat barren soil.

It is all a monumental effort towards calm, the spiritual life. Harder for some than for others, this calm. This distinctive rest that alone can hear God's voice. I suppose that is why old monks are so solidly serene and quietly smiling. They have learned over time to pace the effusiveness.

The Father holds out this future promise of gift and joy and eternal opportunity to gush with impunity! But I must wait for it and strive to carry whatever crosses lead to its glorious door where saints reach out and pull me in and say "Gush on, gush proudly. You have entered the place of infinite effusiveness!

It will escape uncontrollably sometimes, even now, with a whole string of adjectives and metaphors to boot. My dear friend just keeps pouring coffee and waiting to see where it all leads. And if you ever meet me, you may need to hold onto your hat when talking to me. I am a work in progress, you see - holding this effusive temperament in an earthen vessel, while waiting to release it fully in the glory that is Heaven.

I do not feel inclined at this time to have a paid substack. But if we were together in a cafe discussing all these thoughts, I would not be opposed to you buying me a cup of coffee - with cream, of course. In that spirit, if any of my posts resonate with you and you feel so inclined, you can donate here: buymeacoffee.com/denise_trull