A Simple Moment of Beauty

My whole world was changing.  I had crossed the state of Ohio to go to college--my first experience branching out into the great unknown.  I loved it, but I was beginning to question everything--who I was, where I came from.  Everything I'd always been so sure of seemed to be shaking uncontrollably beneath my feet.

I was hurrying upstairs to my room one day (I lived on the fourth floor of the dorm building, and those endless stairs thankfully helped stave off the freshman fifteen.  However, moving down to the first floor the next year resulted in sophomore seventeen) when I saw it through the window on the fourth floor landing.  I laughed but didn't quite register what I'd seen.  I stopped halfway to my room, and doubled back for a second look to be sure I hadn't imagined it. Nope.  There it was.  I walked closer to the window and took in the scene.

There at the edge of campus on the old golf course past the rugby fields and the water tower, stood a line of trees bare in the dead of winter, and in the middle of them stood a lone evergreen, slanting slightly to the right, holding its ground in stable instability.

It made my day.  I laughed about it and showed my friends and they appreciated it, but didn't seem to understand why I thought it was so funny.  I'm not entirely sure either, but it reminded me of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree ("It really isn't such a bad little tree. . . it just needs a little love."), and it reminded me of myself a little bit, but mostly, it just made me happy.  I was struck by the simple beauty of its nonchalant absurdity.

Eventually, at the end of my sophomore year, I took some friends on an adventure to meet "my" tree.  I had been nervous about going up there, afraid I wouldn't be able to find it, or that it wouldn't be as great in real life as it was from afar.

It was, though.  It was wonderful.  I gave it a hug (yes, I am a real life tree-hugger) and explored the field where it lived, vowing to come back and visit.  It was another year before I made the trip again, but it became a place of refuge, a place of peace, almost as dear to me as the Port (the Portiuncula chapel on campus modeled after St. Francis of Assisi's church where perpetual Eucharistic adoration goes on throughout the school year 24/7).  The tree had become a symbol of hope for me, a friend to keep me sane, a constant source of joy.

I am so thankful for the "friend" that tree has been to me.  It can't speak, and no I don't think trees have feelings, but I believe God uses such seemingly insignificant things as trees to speak to us, to show us His love for us.

I've had several different trees in my life that stood as such reminders of God's enduring love, like the giant pin oak in our front yard that sang me to sleep with breezy lullabies (until it was struck by lightning for the second time and we had to cut it down), or the umbrella-shaped flowering dogwood in our neighbor's yard that bloomed white and snowed petals in August (until they cut it down).

I do worry about my tree.  As campus continues to grow, I am fearful that one day I'll return to campus and my tree won't be there.  To help immortalize it, last year for Christmas my boyfriend had an artist friend of his paint my tree with me sitting underneath it reading a book.  There aren't words to describe how much that meant to me.  Last week, my boyfriend finally got to come with me to meet my tree.  There aren't words to describe how much that meant to me.

I could go on and on about the way God speaks to us through trees and the beauty of His creation, but I'll finish by telling you about a movie.  This past Christmas, my aunt and I discovered a delightfully sweet movie called The Christmas Tree about a nun who has befriended a Norwegian spruce.  I love the story for many reasons (I mean, it's about a nun and a pine tree--a few of my favorite things!), but mostly because I relate so much to the simple spirituality of the nun, the way a lost love led her to find God at her center, and her quirky relationship to the tree.  The movie ends with her saying:  "That's what a tree is, a simple moment of beauty."

This is my simple moment of beauty.

A Life of Love

Today is the feast of St. Valentine who was not a naked baby with wings and a harp.  He was actually a martyr, beheaded for devoting his life to living his faith without fear, which, if you ask me, is far more romantic than anything Hallmark has to offer.

To be so moved with love for God that you give your entire life to serving Him, and in doing so, dying for Him--it's the truest kind of love.

These days we are not likely to be martyred for living what we believe.  Scorned and scoffed at, sure, but we go on living.  Yet love is risk.  When we take up our crosses, we risk our comfort.  We risk having to go out of our way to follow Jesus and give others what they need.

It's a scary thought when the American lifestyle is so "me" oriented, so about rewarding ourselves for our work:  "I" want someone to buy me flowers.  "I" just want to go home after a long day at work and pamper myself.  "I" want new music so I'll buy myself a new CD--after all, I've earned it.

But have I?

Day to day, do I really give of myself out of love for God?  No, not usually.  I usually do the minimum.  It's like my cross is sitting in the corner of my heart and occasionally I venerate it, but I rarely pick it up and carry it.  Too much risk.  What if God wants me to be a public speaker?  What if he wants me to take care of sick people?  I'm not ready for that.  I need to mentally prepare myself. . .

Preparation becomes procrastination and I sit still for weeks, not moving forward, afraid to take that step.  It's because I've forgotten that God does not give us more than we can handle.  I've forgotten that vital fact of life--I am loved.  Of course I know that my family and friends and boyfriend love me, and their love is invaluable.

But I tend to forget that I--that all of us--are "loved to a supreme, unimaginable degree, unto silent, gratuitous, cruel death, to the point of total immolation by Him whom we do not even know, or if we have known Him, whom we have denied and offended. . ." (Pope Paul VI)

St. Therese of Lisieux understood this love deeply:

If the Church was a body composed of different members, it couldn't lack the noblest of all; it must have a Heart, and a Heart BURNING WITH LOVE. And I realized that this love alone was the true motive force which enabled the other members of the Church to act; if it ceased to function, the Apostles would forget to preach the gospel, the Martyrs would refuse to shed their blood. LOVE, IN FACT, IS THE VOCATION WHICH INCLUDES ALL OTHERS; IT'S A UNIVERSE OF ITS OWN, COMPRISING ALL TIME AND SPACE — IT'S ETERNAL! 

Therese lived her life accordingly.  She humbled herself to be a nun, a lowly, and forgotten sister who volunteered for the most unpleasant tasks as a way to offer up little sacrifices out of love.  She lived in humble confidence and obedience, accepting all that came her way as a gift from God.

In order to do this, she made the Act of Oblation every day (click on the link for the full prayer, below is an excerpt): 

 I OFFER MYSELF AS A VICTIM OF HOLOCAUST TO YOUR MERCIFUL LOVE, asking You to consume me incessantly, allowing the waves of infinite tenderness shut up within You to overflow into my soul, and that thus I may become a martyr of Your Love, O my God!

That's love.  Therese did not die a martyr's death in the common fashion, but she became a martyr, dying to herself every minute of every day to be more open to the waves of God's Merciful Love.

I aspire.