There's a half-joke, half-proverb in the journalism world that reporters are typically encouraged to live by: Don't read the comments on your stories.
It's not worth the aggravation or the blood pressure spike. Most of the time, the people responding negatively aren't in the mood to listen to a response even if you offered one.
But comment threads are everywhere online. And lately I've made the mistake of reading through discussions in places I would normally expect some peace.
I don't think anyone will be surprised when I say that what I've found instead is a lot of toxic waste.
It comes from everyone, too: Conservatives, liberals, all races and creeds and sexual orientations. I'm not talking about heated disagreement, either — this is mud-slinging, vitriolic chaos.
The worst part is that, as the crude saying goes, shit flows downhill. The more brokenness I see around me, the more broken I feel.
Lately, I've picked up on a sneaky temptation slithering into the dark, dusty parts of my heart. It's anger, in all of its unpleasant forms. My temper and patience are short-lived. My tolerance for the difficult is next to nothing. Now that I recognize that, I'm taking active steps to change what I'm reading, watching and listening to. I'm feeling a lot better now, but the reality hasn't changed.
We are a fallen world that is rapidly forgetting how to live in peace.
It's been a brutal year. Ukraine is on fire. Ferguson, MO is consumed by riots. Minorities of every kind are being systematically and horrifically eliminated in the Middle East. One of the world's most beloved sources of laughter succumbed under the weight of crushing despair. And there's no end in sight to any of it.
My heart is weary. What's a Christian to do with this? Pray? People who don't understand our faith would say that God obviously stopped caring for us and our sad little pleas a long time ago, if He lives at all.
But in the midst of so much pain in the world, I've seen something else start to blossom: Deep compassion.
It's subtle and often silent, but it's there — So many of us, myself included, are awakening to a desire to do something. To help. To stop the bloodshed, both literal and figurative.
To them, I say we might not be able to end these conflicts, but we can plant a seed in our own corners of the world. We can love. We can give of ourselves to those in our reach that are aching inside. We can speak hope and life into our friends who are discouraged or our relationships that are broken. We can start over.
It's a little microcosm of the Gospel: To forgive when it's not deserved. To step up when we'd rather stick our heads in the sand. To see another's wounds and embrace them in spite of it simply because they're human, just like the rest of us.
Saint Therese of Lisieux said that picking up a pin for love's sake (God is love, remember) can convert a soul.
I believe her. That little way of hers can change the whole world. Don't feel helpless — do something, and do it now.
Love. And love well.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Staring at the Sky
So many of us straddle a fence.
We keep one foot firmly planted in the past, pining for the things we once had or replaying our failures.
The other is pointed toward the future, lost in a forever "someday," listing off all the things we're going to do ... eventually.
For me, life can sometimes be a giant list of "shoulds" — I should have said this or that, shouldn't go there, should do something tomorrow, next week, next year. Someone wise once told me, "Don't 'should' on yourself." (Read that aloud if you want a laugh!)
I take comfort in knowing I'm not alone in my occasionally misplaced focus. A few weeks ago, we celebrated the Ascension, a feast that marks Jesus' return to heaven after rising from the dead and spending some extra time with His disciples.
The scene laid out in Scripture is an interesting one. Jesus gathers the usual crowd together and promises that He's going to send them help (His Spirit) to spread His love to the entire world...
...And then He goes. Just like that.
The disciples just stood there, dumbfounded as usual. But can we blame them? The past three years of their lives have been full of mystery, unexplained parables, signs, wonders and miracles. They saw their hero suffer, die and then rise from the dead, only to disappear again now.
That moment was probably an emotional suckerpunch not unlike the one they experienced following Jesus' crucifixion. Their hopes for a Messiah were utterly crushed as they returned to their old lives in despair.
But then Jesus returned, essentially saying, "Hey, we're not done here yet."
The same thing happens again here, when two angels appear to the group and ask the obvious: "Why are you standing there staring at the sky? This Jesus ... will return!"
There's an unspoken command here, too: "Get to work."
We're only given one life, and for all we know, we might only have today. There's no time to waste on sweating the past or waiting for the future to rescue us. We, too, have work to do. And God has already given us everything we need to thrive.
So what if we chose to be brave? What would our days look like if we lived — and loved — to the fullest?
Don't let yourself be satisfied with a fantasy. We were made to do extraordinary things, and we're not promised tomorrow to do them.
We keep one foot firmly planted in the past, pining for the things we once had or replaying our failures.
The other is pointed toward the future, lost in a forever "someday," listing off all the things we're going to do ... eventually.
For me, life can sometimes be a giant list of "shoulds" — I should have said this or that, shouldn't go there, should do something tomorrow, next week, next year. Someone wise once told me, "Don't 'should' on yourself." (Read that aloud if you want a laugh!)
I take comfort in knowing I'm not alone in my occasionally misplaced focus. A few weeks ago, we celebrated the Ascension, a feast that marks Jesus' return to heaven after rising from the dead and spending some extra time with His disciples.
The scene laid out in Scripture is an interesting one. Jesus gathers the usual crowd together and promises that He's going to send them help (His Spirit) to spread His love to the entire world...
...And then He goes. Just like that.
The disciples just stood there, dumbfounded as usual. But can we blame them? The past three years of their lives have been full of mystery, unexplained parables, signs, wonders and miracles. They saw their hero suffer, die and then rise from the dead, only to disappear again now.
That moment was probably an emotional suckerpunch not unlike the one they experienced following Jesus' crucifixion. Their hopes for a Messiah were utterly crushed as they returned to their old lives in despair.
But then Jesus returned, essentially saying, "Hey, we're not done here yet."
The same thing happens again here, when two angels appear to the group and ask the obvious: "Why are you standing there staring at the sky? This Jesus ... will return!"
There's an unspoken command here, too: "Get to work."
We're only given one life, and for all we know, we might only have today. There's no time to waste on sweating the past or waiting for the future to rescue us. We, too, have work to do. And God has already given us everything we need to thrive.
So what if we chose to be brave? What would our days look like if we lived — and loved — to the fullest?
Don't let yourself be satisfied with a fantasy. We were made to do extraordinary things, and we're not promised tomorrow to do them.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Remembering Maya Angelou: God Loves Me
A week ago, the world lost a brilliant, loving and ferocious woman. Maya Angelou was a poet, professor and civil rights advocate. She used a difficult life as a channel for bettering herself and empowering those around her to do the same.
I'll admit that I don't really have heroes in this world. But there is no woman in modern history who has inspired me more.
Dr. Angelou was also a Christian, and while the particulars of our faith differ, she expresses perfectly in this video a lesson that can be a struggle even for longtime believers.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she and all the faithful departed, through the mercy of Christ, rest in peace.
I'll admit that I don't really have heroes in this world. But there is no woman in modern history who has inspired me more.
Dr. Angelou was also a Christian, and while the particulars of our faith differ, she expresses perfectly in this video a lesson that can be a struggle even for longtime believers.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she and all the faithful departed, through the mercy of Christ, rest in peace.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Saints are Sinners
This weekend before Mass, I was sitting right underneath a statue of Mary on one side of the altar. Her face was set in a serene, Mona Lisa-esque smile, her arms held out as if to embrace us. Her robes were unwrinkled and her face was free of any lines or blemishes. Put simply, she was flawless.
Most other statues or religious images are created with a similar, airbrushed perfection. And so often I find myself thinking one thing when I see them: I wish I knew who you really were. It's like looking at old photographs of long-dead relatives. We often grow up loving and respecting them from what's been passed down, but we'll never truly know them.
These images show us a perfect face. And we are told that these men and women are our role models in our life with God.
Sometimes, it's easy to feel discouraged. After all, they all seem so holy. Talk about setting the bar high!
But the truth is that these saints lived very human lives. We don't call them saints because they were sinless and untouchable. In fact, for the vast majority that couldn't be farther from the truth. Augustine, Francis and Ignatius were all materialistic playboys before they encountered God. Catherine of Siena argued fiercely with the Pope. Bernadette of Lourdes was considered contrary, stubborn and aloof by her superiors. Padre Pio's temper was world famous.
The same can be said of many of the Bible's greatest "characters" — David had an affair. Peter denied Jesus. Paul was a murderer. Mary Magdalene is thought to have been a prostitute.
All of them continued to struggle with temptation and sin even after they committed to following God's will. We call them saints because of their perseverance in faith, not their perfection.
The Church has saints to show us that anything can be overcome with God's grace and a willing heart. They are as unique and troubled as we are. If they can become holy — if they can be the best version of themselves — then we can, too. It's as simple as acknowledging when we fall, and asking for God's help to get up again.
Most other statues or religious images are created with a similar, airbrushed perfection. And so often I find myself thinking one thing when I see them: I wish I knew who you really were. It's like looking at old photographs of long-dead relatives. We often grow up loving and respecting them from what's been passed down, but we'll never truly know them.
These images show us a perfect face. And we are told that these men and women are our role models in our life with God.
Sometimes, it's easy to feel discouraged. After all, they all seem so holy. Talk about setting the bar high!
But the truth is that these saints lived very human lives. We don't call them saints because they were sinless and untouchable. In fact, for the vast majority that couldn't be farther from the truth. Augustine, Francis and Ignatius were all materialistic playboys before they encountered God. Catherine of Siena argued fiercely with the Pope. Bernadette of Lourdes was considered contrary, stubborn and aloof by her superiors. Padre Pio's temper was world famous.
The same can be said of many of the Bible's greatest "characters" — David had an affair. Peter denied Jesus. Paul was a murderer. Mary Magdalene is thought to have been a prostitute.
All of them continued to struggle with temptation and sin even after they committed to following God's will. We call them saints because of their perseverance in faith, not their perfection.
The Church has saints to show us that anything can be overcome with God's grace and a willing heart. They are as unique and troubled as we are. If they can become holy — if they can be the best version of themselves — then we can, too. It's as simple as acknowledging when we fall, and asking for God's help to get up again.
The Lord wills not the death of a sinner but rather that he should turn and live. ... There is a time of endurance, a time of long suffering, a time of healing, a time of correction. Have you stumbled? Arise. Have you sinned? Cease.
—St. Basil of Caesarea
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Ordinary Mercy
Last week, the Catholic Church marked a special feast day that we call Divine Mercy Sunday. I was out of town last weekend so I'm a little late, but I couldn't let the occasion pass unrecognized.
For Christians, life is a daily exercise in learning to listen to the "still, small voice" of God. Like it or not, neon signs from heaven and other miraculous wonders aren't an everyday occurrence for most of us (though miracles can and do happen all the time).
In the 1930s, a young Polish nun named Faustina began to write down what she says were visions of Jesus. All of these visions featured Jesus speaking about how much He loves us and is willing to forgive us when we fail. Those messages became known as the Divine Mercy, and devotion to it sprang up all over the world. You can read more about it here.
Tonight, I wanted to share an old story that taught me a lot about the way God loves and forgives us.
I got my driver's license at 21, the last of my group of friends. Being older didn't prevent me from making a rookie mistake, however.
I'd only had my license for six weeks, and the thrill of my seven-minute commute to the newsroom was still fresh. The drive was a piece of cake by then, having repeated it over and over again with my learner's permit.
In fact, it was so familiar and second nature that, for just a second, my brain went on autopilot. I was about to miss the turn off my street. Realizing the error, I startled and cut the wheel hard, but it was too late. I was heading straight for the house on the corner.
Now, it would have been simple to just, you know, hit the brakes. But new drivers don't always make the best decisions, especially when they panic.
In a brief moment of sheer genius, I hit the gas.
The car lurched forward. My mind froze. I jostled over the curb, onto the grass, into their bushes ... and eventually came to a rough, sudden halt in the front yard.
No one was home at the time. The once-neat line of shrubbery looked like a partially toothless Jack-o-lantern. It was a hot mess. I was a hot mess. Thankfully, no one was hurt.
But that night, I had to face my father. I spent the whole day at work mortified, guilty and terrified of what he would say to me.
When I got home from work, he didn't say anything, trudging silently out to the garage to assess the damage to the car. When he returned, the painful silence dragged on.
Finally, more out of paranoia than anything else, I snapped. "Dad, just say something," I pleaded.
He watched me for a long moment, and my heart ached from disappointing him. But then something incredible happened. Dad crossed the kitchen and wrapped me up in a bear hug, the kind he used to give me when I was small. With a kiss on the top of the head, he told me, "I'm just glad you're alright."
The relief, humility and pure joy that washed over me in that moment was unforgettable. Yes, it was a simple mistake, but it was also a really big deal for me.
Looking back, I've come to see that experience as a teachable moment from God. He used my dad's loving forgiveness to teach me about the tenderness of His own Divine Mercy. I think back to that night sometimes if I find myself doubting God's love.
This story is just one simple way that God uses the events of our daily lives to reach out in touch us. It's why learning to see our lives through the lens of faith makes such a difference.
For Christians, life is a daily exercise in learning to listen to the "still, small voice" of God. Like it or not, neon signs from heaven and other miraculous wonders aren't an everyday occurrence for most of us (though miracles can and do happen all the time).
In the 1930s, a young Polish nun named Faustina began to write down what she says were visions of Jesus. All of these visions featured Jesus speaking about how much He loves us and is willing to forgive us when we fail. Those messages became known as the Divine Mercy, and devotion to it sprang up all over the world. You can read more about it here.
Tonight, I wanted to share an old story that taught me a lot about the way God loves and forgives us.
I got my driver's license at 21, the last of my group of friends. Being older didn't prevent me from making a rookie mistake, however.
I'd only had my license for six weeks, and the thrill of my seven-minute commute to the newsroom was still fresh. The drive was a piece of cake by then, having repeated it over and over again with my learner's permit.
In fact, it was so familiar and second nature that, for just a second, my brain went on autopilot. I was about to miss the turn off my street. Realizing the error, I startled and cut the wheel hard, but it was too late. I was heading straight for the house on the corner.
Now, it would have been simple to just, you know, hit the brakes. But new drivers don't always make the best decisions, especially when they panic.
In a brief moment of sheer genius, I hit the gas.
The car lurched forward. My mind froze. I jostled over the curb, onto the grass, into their bushes ... and eventually came to a rough, sudden halt in the front yard.
No one was home at the time. The once-neat line of shrubbery looked like a partially toothless Jack-o-lantern. It was a hot mess. I was a hot mess. Thankfully, no one was hurt.
But that night, I had to face my father. I spent the whole day at work mortified, guilty and terrified of what he would say to me.
When I got home from work, he didn't say anything, trudging silently out to the garage to assess the damage to the car. When he returned, the painful silence dragged on.
Finally, more out of paranoia than anything else, I snapped. "Dad, just say something," I pleaded.
He watched me for a long moment, and my heart ached from disappointing him. But then something incredible happened. Dad crossed the kitchen and wrapped me up in a bear hug, the kind he used to give me when I was small. With a kiss on the top of the head, he told me, "I'm just glad you're alright."
The relief, humility and pure joy that washed over me in that moment was unforgettable. Yes, it was a simple mistake, but it was also a really big deal for me.
Looking back, I've come to see that experience as a teachable moment from God. He used my dad's loving forgiveness to teach me about the tenderness of His own Divine Mercy. I think back to that night sometimes if I find myself doubting God's love.
This story is just one simple way that God uses the events of our daily lives to reach out in touch us. It's why learning to see our lives through the lens of faith makes such a difference.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Looking in the Mirror
Palm Sunday is odd.
To me, the Mass for Palm Sunday is like being a part of The Passion of the Christ in fast forward. We begin with a joyful procession into the church, holding palms and singing just as the townspeople did when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem.
It was an exuberant moment for both Jews and Gentliles alike — here at last was the rabbi that everyone had been talking about. There were rumors of healings, signs of power, and even the dead returning to life. And he also spoke radically against faith that's built solely on heartless, rigid obedience.
To the leaders of the day, he was a threat. To others, a beacon of hope. But for all of them, he was an enigma.
In the span of a few days, he would be betrayed, denied, falsely accused, abandoned, mocked, beaten and killed. Much of the torture would come at the hands of those who were closest to his heart.
Whether or not we want to admit it, we do the same thing every day. And the events of Holy Week are a brutal reminder that none of us are immune to human failure, no matter how bold our faith is.
During Palm Sunday Mass and again during the liturgy of Good Friday, we read the entire Passion narrative. What makes these two readings unique is that the congregation does more than just listen — we also participate by playing the part of the crowd.
And trust me, it's a rough crowd. They're the ones that ask for Jesus' crucifixion and say His blood will be on their hands.
We may not be the people handing over blood money or abandoning Jesus at the cross, but there are probably dozens of other little ways we injure our connection to God every day. And over time, those little wounds can take their toll.
But there is a greater message underneath all this: Hope. Yes, Jesus suffered horribly then and in many ways still suffers in the moments we abandon Him. But he came to give us the opportunity to heal, to set things right and move forward. He did it despite the way we treat him. He loves us anyway.
In order to repair our souls, we first need to take a hard look in mirror and get real about the person we see there, flaws and all. That's just what Holy Week is about.
It's an intense process that can sometimes be painful. But if we embrace it, we'll arrive at Easter with a new appreciation for the incredible love we have in God.
Real love isn't afraid to bleed. Be courageous.
To me, the Mass for Palm Sunday is like being a part of The Passion of the Christ in fast forward. We begin with a joyful procession into the church, holding palms and singing just as the townspeople did when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem.
It was an exuberant moment for both Jews and Gentliles alike — here at last was the rabbi that everyone had been talking about. There were rumors of healings, signs of power, and even the dead returning to life. And he also spoke radically against faith that's built solely on heartless, rigid obedience.
To the leaders of the day, he was a threat. To others, a beacon of hope. But for all of them, he was an enigma.
In the span of a few days, he would be betrayed, denied, falsely accused, abandoned, mocked, beaten and killed. Much of the torture would come at the hands of those who were closest to his heart.
Whether or not we want to admit it, we do the same thing every day. And the events of Holy Week are a brutal reminder that none of us are immune to human failure, no matter how bold our faith is.
During Palm Sunday Mass and again during the liturgy of Good Friday, we read the entire Passion narrative. What makes these two readings unique is that the congregation does more than just listen — we also participate by playing the part of the crowd.
And trust me, it's a rough crowd. They're the ones that ask for Jesus' crucifixion and say His blood will be on their hands.
We may not be the people handing over blood money or abandoning Jesus at the cross, but there are probably dozens of other little ways we injure our connection to God every day. And over time, those little wounds can take their toll.
But there is a greater message underneath all this: Hope. Yes, Jesus suffered horribly then and in many ways still suffers in the moments we abandon Him. But he came to give us the opportunity to heal, to set things right and move forward. He did it despite the way we treat him. He loves us anyway.
In order to repair our souls, we first need to take a hard look in mirror and get real about the person we see there, flaws and all. That's just what Holy Week is about.
It's an intense process that can sometimes be painful. But if we embrace it, we'll arrive at Easter with a new appreciation for the incredible love we have in God.
Real love isn't afraid to bleed. Be courageous.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Start Over Again
Two weeks from today will be the Easter Vigil. Our time of preparation will end with joy and, if you're anything like me, probably some relief over indulging in whatever you sacrificed.
You might be having a great Lent: You've been staying on top of your prayer life, toughing it out when those cravings come and are quick to support others in need.
Or maybe you read the first line of this post and let slip some variant of "Oh, @#$%."
To the first crowd, we salute you. Charge on, awesome soldiers of self-discipline!
For the rest of you, take heart: We're not done yet. :)
The way I see it, Lent is a seven-week crash course in the rhythm of the Christian walk — a microcosm of our lifelong relationship with God. Sometimes it's ecstatic, but there are also seasons where it'd be too easy to throw in the towel. Most of the time, it's somewhere in between.
A wise friend once told me that life is merciful to us because we keep on living in good times and in bad. There's so much truth to this, and it's been a wonderful consolation to me in those seasons where things just aren't going right.
If your Lent has been a belly flop, there are still two weeks to make the most of it. Take a deep breath, reconsider your plans if you need to, and then jump in again with both feet. A rocky start can become something extraordinary, especially with Holy Week right around the corner.
And that's true of every trial we might experience. Whether it's a work issue, weight problems or even a broken relationship, it's never too late to start again. Nothing changes overnight, and in some cases things will never be the same. But through God's grace, we can move forward with hope.
Every day is brand new. Pray for the courage to live it fully.
You might be having a great Lent: You've been staying on top of your prayer life, toughing it out when those cravings come and are quick to support others in need.
Or maybe you read the first line of this post and let slip some variant of "Oh, @#$%."
To the first crowd, we salute you. Charge on, awesome soldiers of self-discipline!
For the rest of you, take heart: We're not done yet. :)
The way I see it, Lent is a seven-week crash course in the rhythm of the Christian walk — a microcosm of our lifelong relationship with God. Sometimes it's ecstatic, but there are also seasons where it'd be too easy to throw in the towel. Most of the time, it's somewhere in between.
A wise friend once told me that life is merciful to us because we keep on living in good times and in bad. There's so much truth to this, and it's been a wonderful consolation to me in those seasons where things just aren't going right.
If your Lent has been a belly flop, there are still two weeks to make the most of it. Take a deep breath, reconsider your plans if you need to, and then jump in again with both feet. A rocky start can become something extraordinary, especially with Holy Week right around the corner.
And that's true of every trial we might experience. Whether it's a work issue, weight problems or even a broken relationship, it's never too late to start again. Nothing changes overnight, and in some cases things will never be the same. But through God's grace, we can move forward with hope.
Every day is brand new. Pray for the courage to live it fully.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Perfect Timing
Lately I've been feeling weird for not posting here. I've come by a couple of times and started to write, only to nix it two minutes in. Something felt forced. It wasn't time yet.
But tonight I listened to the wrong song and the dam broke. Maybe it was the right song.
Like many others, I've always had a strong, almost visceral connection to music. Most of my favorite songs are associated with some special memory, and hearing them again brings me back to those moments in a way that's at times shockingly vivid and sensory.
The earworm tonight is a simple little worship tune that everybody knows. I typically hate the "standards" for their overuse and cheese-factor, but a few bars of this one always stick in my heart. "The sun comes up, it's a new day dawning — time to sing Your song again. Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes."
In an instant, I'm reliving my most recent birthday weekend.
I was given the incredible opportunity to go on retreat with my fiance's campus ministry back in the fall. Many of the kids know me, and in a lot of ways I'm already a part of their family.
The weekend going into that retreat wasn't the easiest. I was weighed down with anxieties about the future, and the night before my birthday was sleepless as B and I struggled to work through the wall between us.
Those feelings came with me on retreat. And later they came tumbling out of me in a great heap in Confession. I was so worn down, emotionally and physically, that for the first two minutes I sat and cried.
Father, bless him, let me cry. When I calmed, he looked at me hard for a minute, not saying anything. Then:
"Listen to me. Don't ever tell me that you don't belong here. This is your calling. You are needed. You were created for this. And I don't want you saying otherwise in front of me ever again. Do you understand?"
I was startled by his sternness, but the tough love also shook me out of my bubble of worry. We were going through a growth spurt, not a catastrophe.
After Confession I staked out a comfy spot and curled up on the floor of the chapel for Adoration. We'd killed the lights and filled the little room with tiny candles. I couldn't help but be flooded with joy listening to that small group sing together to God just because they could. It was infectious.
For the first time, I was ready to leave New Jersey behind and embrace the new life I'm called to on Long Island.
But it wasn't time yet. And tonight, listening to that song again, I remember that night and my heart yearns for my almost-home.
Lent starts this week — the 40-day journey toward Easter full of contemplation, prayer and preparation. It's a tough season sometimes, but the wait makes that far-off Sunday so much sweeter.
So it is with all of life. This time of waiting and separation is making me stronger for my future husband and the people we'll serve together. God is readying my heart. And I have no doubt that when our moment finally does come, I'll be a better wife for it.
But tonight I listened to the wrong song and the dam broke. Maybe it was the right song.
Like many others, I've always had a strong, almost visceral connection to music. Most of my favorite songs are associated with some special memory, and hearing them again brings me back to those moments in a way that's at times shockingly vivid and sensory.
The earworm tonight is a simple little worship tune that everybody knows. I typically hate the "standards" for their overuse and cheese-factor, but a few bars of this one always stick in my heart. "The sun comes up, it's a new day dawning — time to sing Your song again. Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes."
In an instant, I'm reliving my most recent birthday weekend.
I was given the incredible opportunity to go on retreat with my fiance's campus ministry back in the fall. Many of the kids know me, and in a lot of ways I'm already a part of their family.
The weekend going into that retreat wasn't the easiest. I was weighed down with anxieties about the future, and the night before my birthday was sleepless as B and I struggled to work through the wall between us.
Those feelings came with me on retreat. And later they came tumbling out of me in a great heap in Confession. I was so worn down, emotionally and physically, that for the first two minutes I sat and cried.
Father, bless him, let me cry. When I calmed, he looked at me hard for a minute, not saying anything. Then:
"Listen to me. Don't ever tell me that you don't belong here. This is your calling. You are needed. You were created for this. And I don't want you saying otherwise in front of me ever again. Do you understand?"
I was startled by his sternness, but the tough love also shook me out of my bubble of worry. We were going through a growth spurt, not a catastrophe.
After Confession I staked out a comfy spot and curled up on the floor of the chapel for Adoration. We'd killed the lights and filled the little room with tiny candles. I couldn't help but be flooded with joy listening to that small group sing together to God just because they could. It was infectious.
For the first time, I was ready to leave New Jersey behind and embrace the new life I'm called to on Long Island.
But it wasn't time yet. And tonight, listening to that song again, I remember that night and my heart yearns for my almost-home.
Lent starts this week — the 40-day journey toward Easter full of contemplation, prayer and preparation. It's a tough season sometimes, but the wait makes that far-off Sunday so much sweeter.
So it is with all of life. This time of waiting and separation is making me stronger for my future husband and the people we'll serve together. God is readying my heart. And I have no doubt that when our moment finally does come, I'll be a better wife for it.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Everyday Use
People have been coming to me for advice since I was in middle school.
I've always had a knack for listening and a heart for nurturing, and I guess you can smell it on me. It's not uncommon for people to open up to me out of the blue. While it's not always easy, I'm so grateful that people trust me to walk beside them in whatever they're going through.
A few weeks ago, a young friend of mine confided that she was feeling conflicted about some recent decisions. "Talk to me," she urged.
And we did talk for hours that day. And more the next week.
Through all of this, I was forced to confront something that made me snicker: I didn't have conclusive answers for my friend. All I could give her was my experience, my own stories, and the lessons gained through an abundance of trial and error.
It's easy to want to control things, to wrap up every problem cleanly with a little bow of self-satisfaction. But life doesn't usually work that way.
That first night we talked, I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, mulling it all over. A strange mix of feelings kicked around in my head — pride for my friend, her honesty and willingness to face her worries directly. Hope that she'll be able to make the right choices. A touch of nostalgia on recognizing that she is no longer just my goofy and idealistic young friend, but now a blossoming, courageous woman of God.
And deep down, a whisper of insecurity: I hope I did the right thing.
In some small way, what I experienced then was what I imagine every parent goes through as their child grows.
At the end of the day, we're human. We're limited. Try as we might, we don't know everything.
Yet in that experience, God was able to use me to help her. The relief after our talk was palpable. And all it took was being real about what I've gone through.
So many people believe that they need to be wise, gifted or otherwise important to make a difference in the world, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. Yes, Scripture might be full of some phenomenal people and situations, but more often than not they are just broken-down, stumbling and remarkably ordinary fools used for greatness.
That's a humbling thought, but also an incredible comfort: We really are worth something in God's eyes, despite our flaws and occasional stupidity. More than that, we are incredibly valuable.
And it's in those little, ordinary moments that grace waits for us. All we have to do is look around.
I've always had a knack for listening and a heart for nurturing, and I guess you can smell it on me. It's not uncommon for people to open up to me out of the blue. While it's not always easy, I'm so grateful that people trust me to walk beside them in whatever they're going through.
A few weeks ago, a young friend of mine confided that she was feeling conflicted about some recent decisions. "Talk to me," she urged.
And we did talk for hours that day. And more the next week.
Through all of this, I was forced to confront something that made me snicker: I didn't have conclusive answers for my friend. All I could give her was my experience, my own stories, and the lessons gained through an abundance of trial and error.
It's easy to want to control things, to wrap up every problem cleanly with a little bow of self-satisfaction. But life doesn't usually work that way.
That first night we talked, I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, mulling it all over. A strange mix of feelings kicked around in my head — pride for my friend, her honesty and willingness to face her worries directly. Hope that she'll be able to make the right choices. A touch of nostalgia on recognizing that she is no longer just my goofy and idealistic young friend, but now a blossoming, courageous woman of God.
And deep down, a whisper of insecurity: I hope I did the right thing.
In some small way, what I experienced then was what I imagine every parent goes through as their child grows.
At the end of the day, we're human. We're limited. Try as we might, we don't know everything.
Yet in that experience, God was able to use me to help her. The relief after our talk was palpable. And all it took was being real about what I've gone through.
So many people believe that they need to be wise, gifted or otherwise important to make a difference in the world, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. Yes, Scripture might be full of some phenomenal people and situations, but more often than not they are just broken-down, stumbling and remarkably ordinary fools used for greatness.
That's a humbling thought, but also an incredible comfort: We really are worth something in God's eyes, despite our flaws and occasional stupidity. More than that, we are incredibly valuable.
And it's in those little, ordinary moments that grace waits for us. All we have to do is look around.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Cold Feet
One of the special quirks of having cerebral palsy is that my hands and feet are just about always cold. It could be 85 and humid in the middle of July, but some days I still want socks.
As you can imagine, winter is not my favorite time of year. My feelings about this time of year are best summed up in this picture:
After an evening spent in the computer room, the coldest room in the house, I usually have ice cubes for toes. And a lot of the time I crawl in bed with socks on, burrowing under a huge pile of blankets in an attempt to rectify the problem.
It doesn't really work. I toss and turn for a large chunk of the night without seeing much improvement.
There is a way out of this cycle, though: Sometimes a good foot rub is just the thing to warm me up.
That takes time and patience, two things I don't usually have when I'm exhausted and ready to keel over. But if I make that little sacrifice of a few extra minutes, it's so worth it. I'm warm, happy and can actually get some decent sleep.
There's a lesson to be learned here. Often we try to force ourselves into difficult situations or out of our comfort zones in the name of "courage" or "maturity." That can be a great thing, done right. But if we rush it, well, we're not likely to get far. Even if we do reach our goal, it probably would have been a lot less trying if we just took it slow.
A lot of people stretch themselves too thin and push too hard. I know I'm certainly one of them. It's all too easy to take care of everyone and everything around us while never leaving time to care for our own needs, which are just as important.
Interestingly, it's when I make the effort to take good care of myself — physically, mentally and spiritually — that I feel my best.
It's amazing what a little TLC can do.
As you can imagine, winter is not my favorite time of year. My feelings about this time of year are best summed up in this picture:
After an evening spent in the computer room, the coldest room in the house, I usually have ice cubes for toes. And a lot of the time I crawl in bed with socks on, burrowing under a huge pile of blankets in an attempt to rectify the problem.
It doesn't really work. I toss and turn for a large chunk of the night without seeing much improvement.
There is a way out of this cycle, though: Sometimes a good foot rub is just the thing to warm me up.
That takes time and patience, two things I don't usually have when I'm exhausted and ready to keel over. But if I make that little sacrifice of a few extra minutes, it's so worth it. I'm warm, happy and can actually get some decent sleep.
There's a lesson to be learned here. Often we try to force ourselves into difficult situations or out of our comfort zones in the name of "courage" or "maturity." That can be a great thing, done right. But if we rush it, well, we're not likely to get far. Even if we do reach our goal, it probably would have been a lot less trying if we just took it slow.
A lot of people stretch themselves too thin and push too hard. I know I'm certainly one of them. It's all too easy to take care of everyone and everything around us while never leaving time to care for our own needs, which are just as important.
Interestingly, it's when I make the effort to take good care of myself — physically, mentally and spiritually — that I feel my best.
It's amazing what a little TLC can do.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Humble and human
For Catholics, Christmas isn't just a one day thing. It's actually considered a "liturgical season" — a period lasting anywhere from several weeks to several months that focuses on a specific part of Jesus' life.
Traditionally, baptism is both a literal and symbolic washing away of one's sins. In Jesus' time, water was a symbol of death and destruction — to enter the water in baptism is to die to the past and our old ways. When we choose to put our trust in God and come up sputtering from the water, we are brand new.
It shouldn't be surprising that John was so shocked to find Jesus at the river that day. Understand, John spent the entirety of his adult life preaching and preparing Israel for Him! John's command for people to repent and be baptized certainly wouldn't apply to Jesus, would it?
He was perfect. He didn't need saving. And yet He asked for a sinful, ordinary man to baptize Him anyway.
Why?
It's simple: He wanted to share in every part of our human journey. He wanted to go through everything we do, even if He didn't have to.
Our family life, our growth, our prayer and discipline, our joy and suffering ... Jesus entered all of it. And He's still a part of all of it today.
Jesus' baptism is first and foremost an act of humility. It's a reminder for us to step out of our comfort zone to share our lives with those who need us most.
Last weekend I made a day trip into New York City to see one of my favorite singers, Audrey Assad, play a show. One of her songs, "Humble," is perfect for today.
Today we celebrated the last milestone of the Christmas season, the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord. Take a look:
Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him. John tried to prevent him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?” (Matthew 3:13-14)
Traditionally, baptism is both a literal and symbolic washing away of one's sins. In Jesus' time, water was a symbol of death and destruction — to enter the water in baptism is to die to the past and our old ways. When we choose to put our trust in God and come up sputtering from the water, we are brand new.
It shouldn't be surprising that John was so shocked to find Jesus at the river that day. Understand, John spent the entirety of his adult life preaching and preparing Israel for Him! John's command for people to repent and be baptized certainly wouldn't apply to Jesus, would it?
He was perfect. He didn't need saving. And yet He asked for a sinful, ordinary man to baptize Him anyway.
Why?
It's simple: He wanted to share in every part of our human journey. He wanted to go through everything we do, even if He didn't have to.
Our family life, our growth, our prayer and discipline, our joy and suffering ... Jesus entered all of it. And He's still a part of all of it today.
Jesus' baptism is first and foremost an act of humility. It's a reminder for us to step out of our comfort zone to share our lives with those who need us most.
Last weekend I made a day trip into New York City to see one of my favorite singers, Audrey Assad, play a show. One of her songs, "Humble," is perfect for today.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
On hope
Since the fall I've been trying to make a regular habit of taking quiet time at night to pray.
In these cold months I've been sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Sometimes I pray like I hope, and other days I end up just thinking, my gaze wandering to the flickering flames or to the pictures on the mantle above me.
That space and those faces are always so comforting to see. My mom has done an amazing job of encapsulating memories there: the obligatory shots of me as a baby at either end; old family group shots; my grandparents in their prime; school portraits of my cousins from years ago and, recently, similar portraits of their young children.
The newest picture is of my dad's cousin Kurt, who passed away a week before Christmas after being sick most of his life. He died with renewed faith in God, and we all hope to see him again someday in heaven.
But I'll tell you a secret: I don't know what happens when we die. Heck, I don't know if anything I believe about faith is true. The days I actually feel convinced or convicted are rare gems in my world.
To some people, that may make me a bad Catholic, a bad Christian or even a functional agnostic. And maybe I am. Again, I don't know.
But I think that's the thing about having faith —it's faith, not evidence. We can't know what the future holds until we get there. Until then, we can choose to believe and we can hope. I'm OK with that. I wasn't always, but I am now.
If we're wrong, we'll never know. No harm, no foul.
And if we're right, unspeakable joy awaits us.
Why not hope?
In these cold months I've been sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Sometimes I pray like I hope, and other days I end up just thinking, my gaze wandering to the flickering flames or to the pictures on the mantle above me.
That space and those faces are always so comforting to see. My mom has done an amazing job of encapsulating memories there: the obligatory shots of me as a baby at either end; old family group shots; my grandparents in their prime; school portraits of my cousins from years ago and, recently, similar portraits of their young children.
The newest picture is of my dad's cousin Kurt, who passed away a week before Christmas after being sick most of his life. He died with renewed faith in God, and we all hope to see him again someday in heaven.
But I'll tell you a secret: I don't know what happens when we die. Heck, I don't know if anything I believe about faith is true. The days I actually feel convinced or convicted are rare gems in my world.
To some people, that may make me a bad Catholic, a bad Christian or even a functional agnostic. And maybe I am. Again, I don't know.
But I think that's the thing about having faith —it's faith, not evidence. We can't know what the future holds until we get there. Until then, we can choose to believe and we can hope. I'm OK with that. I wasn't always, but I am now.
If we're wrong, we'll never know. No harm, no foul.
And if we're right, unspeakable joy awaits us.
Why not hope?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)