Cider and Songs

Tonight, I called up a friend of mine from college and told her to go on an adventure with me.

There's a little chapel in Vineland that's no bigger than the average person's living room, built by a local family a century ago and cared for by three generations. It's a historic site, and every year the Saint Barbara Chapel is decked out with a beautiful Nativity scene.

But what drew me there was their annual Christmas sing along. At 7 the chapel fills with members of the founding family, devotees of Saint Barbara and other locals who are just looking for some holiday cheer. We pray the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, retell the story of Christ's birth, drink cider and eat cookies together.

The rest of the night is spent singing every carol you can think of and then some, accompanied by weathered strains of recordings from an old cassette. Most of the folks there can really carry a tune, and some are brave enough to contribute a harmony part. All told, it's a night of laughter, simplicity and peace.

When I first stumbled upon the chapel a year ago, America was reeling in the aftermath of the Sandy Hook shootings that killed six adults and 20 children.

I can remember sitting in front of the Nativity scene and trying to make sense of it all. How could a loving God allow something like this? Where does such brutality fit in the grand scheme?

This time last year, many I knew had lost jobs in end-of-quarter layoffs, and a family friend I grew up with passed away after a sudden, tragic illness. He was only a few years my senior.

And this year I returned with a similarly heavy heart. My family is struggling with loss in more ways than we are ready for, barely two months after the death of my grandmother.

It's a lot for anybody, I think.

No matter what's going on in my life, though, St. Barbara's fills me with badly needed hope.

I don't find answers to all of the "whys" there. I don't leave with my doubts silenced and problems solved.

But I do leave remembering that this is why God sent Jesus here in the first place. He was fully human and experienced everything we do: loss, anger, temptation, grief, pain.

His life, death and eventual rising from the dead make one grand statement: Take heart. Things will not be this bad forever. There is hope. There is peace in the midst of all this chaos.

Jesus is Emmanuel, "God with us." He really is with us in everything, working quietly, making things new.

As dark as life can get, there is light everywhere if we look hard enough ... even in the bottom of a cup of cider.

The great Adventure

I love this time of year.

There's a certain pleasant adrenaline rush that comes with finding the perfect gift to spoil the people I love. Carols get me through dragging days at the newsroom, and each night brings me that much closer to seeing my love again at the end of his semester.

But more than anything else, I love Advent.

There's something vindicating in the quiet, joyful anticipation you can feel at our Masses in the four weeks before Christmas. Outside the church doors, the world is a swirl of chaos as we rush about to bake and buy and accomplish. Inside, we leave it all behind to prepare in a different way.

Advent means "coming." Most people associate that with the upcoming arrival of our adorable little baby Savior. But this season is for more than just that. It's the Church's new year, a time to start fresh. 

In the readings from last week, we're reminded Jesus will come suddenly. This past week, we were given an admonition from John the Baptist: "Prepare the way of the Lord! Make straight His paths!"

The way to our hearts can be bumpy, cluttered or blocked altogether. Fear, baggage and distraction can sometimes make it nearly impossible for Jesus to reach us. He's always trying, but do we let Him?

For me, I've had too much on my plate lately. It's all well-meaning enough, but the truth is the things I thought I've been doing for God have actually pulled me away from just spending time sitting with Him and sorting it all out.

Some Catholic families fill up their Nativity scene with hay. I needed to take hay out of mine to make more room.

The nice thing about Advent is the preparations we make now can carry us into the new year on a high note.

There might be less than two weeks until Christmas, but the wonderful thing about faith is it's never too late start exploring — or start over.

Maybe it can be the beginning of something new for all of us.

Here's to Whoville

I'm not ashamed to say I'm a total Christmas enthusiast. It's not uncommon to find me humming carols to myself in September, and I still get giddy when the tree goes up. The scent of evergreen is an antidepressant, I swear.

I end up recording a lot of my favorite Christmas shows since I work in the evening, so today my dad and I sat down to watch the original "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." It's his favorite.

This year, I saw the cartoon in a new light. The Grinch has a lot to teach us, if you look hard enough.

Time for a secret: He reminds me a little of myself, sometimes.

That's not to say I'm a grump or pessimist, because I'm not really either. But we do have one big thing in common. Other people's faith, peace and joy — the brightness that seems to radiate from their pores — makes us both squeamishly uncomfortable.

On good days, I admire the strength of those qualities. It amazes me and inspires me to try to emulate those things in my own life.

But on other days, these "sunshiny" people make me bitter. They irritate me and, yes, even sometimes provoke a terrible envy in my heart.

It's because I don't understand them. I can't relate. That's not what my faith has made me.

The gifts and traits I've received from God are different, but just as beautiful. I lose sight of that too often.

But over the past few years, as my life has been blessed with a few very special "sunshiny" people, my attitude is beginning to change.

They are my Whos. They have taught me that life is about much more than what we achieve or how happy we are. Faith in God isn't just a response to the good in our lives. Joy isn't just a reaction to the things that make us feel warm and fuzzy.

Those things are undercurrents. They're what teach us that there is good in everyone if we look hard enough and positive lessons to be learned from our failures. They're what lead us to affirm that God is good even when it seems like the bottom's falling out.

And like the Grinch's experience of the steadfast joy in Whoville, that light is contagious. It can change hearts.

Bit my bit, it's changing mine. It can change yours, too.

Time to rise and shine!

I confess that I am the sort of woman that prefers the path of least resistance.

Can you blame me? Life is simpler when I surround myself with similar friends and try not to rock the boat. It just feels better when I choose the safe road. As long as I never step out of my comfort zone, I won't get hurt.

But is it worth it? Is a life of careful, controlled insulation what I was made for?

The tugs on my heart say it's not. Deep inside me is a call to something more.

Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI both challenges and scares me when he says: "The world promises you comfort, but you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness."

I'm so glad he has that faith in all of us! There are days I sure don't. ;)

Let's face it: We're all wounded in one way or another. Adversity and sin have a tendency to trap us into our current circumstances. But it doesn't have to be that way. We don't have to be slaves to the status quo. We can choose to live.

That's why the Gospel is so radically important. Jesus' life was rich in love, but that same love led to His death. He was crushed under the weight of this world, buried and sealed away, His light smothered. So much for that. For too many people, that's where we give up.

But the story's not over yet. In defying death and walking out of that cave, He has given us the chance to let go of our burdens, shake off the dust and be who we were made to be. He is risen, and now it's our turn.

With God's help, we can roll back the stone in our own lives. It's taken me seven years to even begin to believe that. But I am ready to try. And as long as I'm on this journey, I want to share it. I hope it challenges you, too.

Be not afraid!
Melissa