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.

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.

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.

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?