Love Come Alive

If only the good die young, then why be good?

That's what I want to know.

Still I try

and fail most times

to live, give, and be love.

Words quench my thirst and spark a fire

that sets me on my knees before Your throne

as grace melts this hardened heart.

Grace floods 

in anticipation:

of a reunion with a dear friend

who saved me from myself;

in memories:

of words longed for but dared not spoken

until shouted unexpectedly across the hushed night,

words that didn't mean what I wanted,

but meant so much more

in the process:

of growing up and learning

just how much more those words mean,

how much more the Word means,

what it means that the Word became flesh,

that the Word dwelt among us,

that the Word dwells among us still,

that Love has come alive,

that we die and rise in Love,

that Love is the final reality.

"Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair." ~G.K. Chesterton

This is what it means--the Theology of the Body, to live love.

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.

My Brother's Keeper

Wind whipped through the abandoned camp, the gaps in the barbed wire fences, the houses that evil built. 

I stepped cautiously along the cobblestone and dirt roads where evil tread, past mounds of hair that evil sheared, piles of tattered shoes that evil stole, prisons where evil sneered, walls riddled with bullet holes where evil killed, ovens where evil burned. 

Evil stirred in the wind that blew through Auschwitz that day, chilling me to my core, taunting me, asking me, "Why did God forsake this place, these people who suffered and cried out for His help? Why did no one save them?"

I remembered words written by a young girl: "In spite of everything, I still believe people are basically good at heart," Anne Frank wrote from her attic prison. Did she change her mind when she reached this place? Evil made sure that the world will never know. 

As I walked out of the ghost camp that October evening, I realized I was changed. I had seen and felt what could not be conveyed in a classroom history lesson.

I wondered how God could possibly let something so terrible happen to so many innocent people. It was easier to trust in God's mercy and love before, but now that I had seen for myself what evil could do, how could I believe?

A faint hope rose in me--at least I could rest in the confidence that we would never allow something like this to go on today. And then as quickly as hope rose, it dwindled: it is going on today. It began in our country in 1973 and continues today--55 million innocent, defenseless human lives destroyed through abortion.

A force greater than the gusty Poland wind suddenly moved in my heart--the cry of God, "The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground." (Gen. 4:10) The voice of our brothers' blood calls to us from the ground, from the dumpsters where they are carelessly tossed, from the jars that line the walls of an abortionist's office, from the execution rooms, from the battlefields, from a schoolyard in Connecticut.

There is blood everywhere, and we wonder, who is going to clean up this mess? In the film The Passion of the Christ, we watch the Mother of God drop to her hands and knees to clean up her own Son's blood after His scourging. After His death, she holds his bloodied, bruised, broken body and looks at us with haunting eyes as if to say, "See how much He loves you?" More than we can know. He actually did that for us, to cleanse us with His Mercy. He showed us what it means to be His brothers' keeper by showing mercy, by loving unconditionally, and by giving up His life so that we may live. He did this for us and said, "Now do this for others."

Tomorrow hundreds of thousands of people will gather in Washington D.C. to be a voice for the voiceless, to be their brothers' keeper.  The March for Life is quite literally a walk in the park compared to Christ's struggle up to Calvary under the crushing weight of our sins, but it is a step along the Way.  It is a small way of taking a peaceful stand against evil. 

Even though the media ignores us for the most part, and politicians are much more concerned about money these days than the legalized murder of human babies, we march on and will continue to do so as long as the truth is denied.  We will continue to be the voice of our brothers' blood crying out from the ground--the voice of truth.

You will not silence my message;

you will not mock my God;

and you WILL stop killing my generation.

(Pro-life Youth pledge, Rock for Life)

If you, like me, are not able to attend the March for Life this year, please take at least a moment to pray for the souls of our brothers and sisters who will never see the light of day, the Abels of our time.  And pray that the hearts of the people will be open to the truth.

Over the Rainbow

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.  I had a Toto stuffed animal and a basket for everyday pretending, and a blue dress and red shoes for Halloween.  One year I received a ruby slipper ornament for the Christmas tree, and it remains my favorite.  This year for Christmas, I received these gems:

ruby slipper socks

Where were these when I was five?!  They are quite possibly my favorite thing ever.  I wish I had a pair for every day of the week.

When I slip them on, I feel like a little girl again, and am charmingly reminded, as my mother puts it, "Dorothy ain't shittin'.  There's no place like home."

Sometimes I'd rather be anywhere else than here--not even necessarily over the rainbow, but somewhere that's not this house, not this town, not Ohio.  Yet here I am, watching The Wizard of Oz with my eight year old sister.

Then I remember that this is the little sister I always wanted but never thought I would get.  I was 16 (my other siblings 20, 19, and 12) and pretty sure another sibling was beyond hope.  Then one rainy afternoon on vacation our parents gave us the news.

As we realized they weren't joking, the sun mixed with the rain and painted a rainbow over the mountains behind our cabin.  I was sure it was a sign from God, and it struck me with wonder--some dreams really do come true.

puffin along

*I take no credit for this photo, but I had to share it.  Thanks to Nick for sharing it with me.*

When I was a teenager I read a book called Scribbler of Dreams by Mary E. Pearson.  It is a modern retake on Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet without the tragic ending and with a slightly more substantial love story combined with a well-developed life lesson.

The tale is twisted in a web of seemingly harmless lies that we find stems back to huge lies in the family past of the two protagonists.  The teen lovebirds are distantly related (not enough to produce extra toes on any children they may have in the future), and Kait (our Juliet) discovers a dark family secret--the true cause for feuding among the families.

What I love most about this book is, well, the title, but also the way Kait comes to learn and truly understand both sides of the story.  Her blind hatred becomes a humbling recognition that each person involved (including herself) contributed fault, but all were unwilling to admit it and unwilling to forgive.

In the words of Cardinal Dolan, she essentially learns this:

But the answer to the question "What's wrong with the world?" is not politics, the economy, secularism, pollution, global warming. . .no.  As Chesterton wrote, "The answer to the question 'What's wrong with the world?' is two words:  I am."

I am! Admitting that leads to conversion of heart and repentance, the core of the Gospel invitation. 

That happens in the sacrament of Penance.  This is the sacrament of Evangelization.

I believe those words.  Things like rape and human trafficking and abortion really get me fuming about the state of humanity, but if I'm honest, I know I contribute to the problem.  By not living consistently in a way that affirms the value and dignity of every person I meet (and in so many other ways), I am what's wrong with the world.  But I also believe in grace and mercy, that Christ makes up for all I lack, and that gives me hope.

I also like to think of myself as a scribbler of dreams.  I am a writer, a scribbler, full of hopes and ideals, but with little idea how to truly live the dream.  Still, I will hold on to hope and keep puffin' along.

The Unexpected Year

I brought in the new year in denial.

For one, I was in denial that, despite all of my precautions of carrying Lysol wipes in my purse, washing my hands ten times more than usual, and taking exorbitant amounts of vitamin C, I was getting sick anyway.  Combined with the fact that I had to be up for work at 4:30 am New Years Day, I wasn't the happiest new year camper.

To be honest though, I didn't expect us to make it this far--I was in denial that 2013 was even happening.  I mean, I didn't exactly believe the world was going to end, but I don't know--I guess 12/21/12 was just too anti-climactic.  With all the joking and talking about what might happen, I kind of began to hope that something, something, might happen that would relieve me of the problem of growing up and making real life decisions.

But here we are.

The first few days of the year were a little blurry for me, buried in tissues and Nyquil and cough drops, but now that I'm thinking about it, I don't have any real resolutions.  I have the usual--eat healthier, exercise more, write more, find my dream job--but honestly, I don't have any real expectations for this year.  Not in that pessimistic if-you-have-no-expectations-then-you'll-never-be-disappointed way, but in an I'm-prepared-to-be-surprised way.

For the last few months of 2012, I felt like I was working working working and wasn't making any progress in practically every aspect of my life.  Physically, mentally, spiritually I had expectations and I knew that something had to give, but nothing budged.  I realized then that everything was spinning wildly out of my control, and I could do nothing to change it.  All I could change was my attitude.

It's been humbling, and there are days when everything in me fights against it, but I keep telling myself it's all part of the plan.  Every so often there's a moment of grace--a lost friend come home, a lesson in suffering, a new baby, a word of encouragement, a sample from the bakery--and I am reminded that yes, these coffee grounds covering the front of my shirt and sticking underneath my fingernails are all I can give to God, but I can give them with love (or die trying).  

So I'm done trying to control everything.  This year, I give God full reign.  He knows what's best, and I trust Him.  I'm learning to let that be enough.