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.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
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?
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
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.
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