I discovered a few months back a story about a normal guy my age-ish doing something simple, artistic, and beautiful: taking pictures of people in New York City and putting them up on a blog and other social media sites.
As I looked at these photos and read their captions, I found myself laughing, crying, relating to, and wondering about these people. Some looked like they could be my friends, some made me slightly uncomfortable, some made me intensely curious. They showcased the colorful spectrum of humanity in one of the biggest cities in the world.
Brandon Stanton set out merely to create a photographic census of New York City with Humans of New York (HONY). As he started photographing people though, he started talking to them, and actually taking the time to make connections and get to know them. Now he adds stories and captions to the photos to give us a further glimpse into the lives behind the faces.
I can't get enough of it. Not because it's a form of speculation or entertainment, but because it offers a glimpse into the heart of humanity. I've never been to New York, but I see in these faces the faces of my customers, my co-workers, my family and friends, my self, my God.
Brandon's photographs capture simple moments of beauty that the average pedestrian probably wouldn't notice. They display the beauty of creation and the beauty of man's interpretation of creation. Some photos and stories raise controversial questions, but that's not the point of the project. The point is to present truth and beauty, to present raw humanity in all of its beautiful imperfections.
HONY reminds me of God's unfailing love and incredible imagination, and for that, I am grateful.
I am reminded too that for those of us struggling to figure out life after college in a lousy job market, we can still make a difference simply by doing what we love. It doesn't have to be big or complex. Simple and beautiful is all it takes, and great things can come from that.
The creeping cold of winter freezes the soul, and the dry darkness sets in.
In those dark moments, everything you do feels like failure, and everything you want to change you can't change yet. Patience isn't asked; it's required. Virtue by default.
The weight presses down, squeezes out a tear here and there. And then there's the darkest moment--when the soul is black and blends in with the darkness, but the Shepherd's voice calls out, searching for His beloved lost sheep.
In the darkness, you, His beloved lost sheep, cannot see Him, but you hear His voice: "My child, I am here."
He is here, and you feel His presence. You see before you a heavy wooden cross, splinters sticking out at the ends. He hands it to you and you see all of your weaknesses and all of those things beyond your power nailed to the cross. It's too heavy for you.
"I can't--" you say, but He puts His arms around yours and embraces you with the cross.
"I am with you," He assures you.
You can't help falling in love. You embrace the cross too, and light fills you. The weight is not lifted, but you are able to carry it.
"I will do these things for you," He says. "Just stay with me, daughter. Abide with me, in my love."
You nod and say, "I trust You. I trust You, my Jesus. I trust You."
"I will be with you always. Stay with me, and abide in my love. I will make you new."
O my God, fill my soul with holy joy, courage, and strength to serve You. Enkindle Your Love in me and then walk with me along the next stretch of road before me. I do not see very far ahead, but when I have arrived where the horizon now closes down, a new prospect will open before me, and I shall meet it with peace. ~St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein)
On New Year's Eve we drove to Minnesota for a wedding. The new year dawned somewhere between Indiana and Illinois. It had started snowing and he was focused on keeping the car under control so that we didn't die. I was marveling at how quickly the roads had gone from black to white.
As we slipped between time zones without a countdown or a ball drop or waiting around watching the clock, the new year slipped in without fanfare, just a continuation of the year before.
But then, aren't they all anyway?
I think about last year, how I considered it The Unexpected Year. I had no real expectations for myself or the year. I had no idea what it had in store, but I offered it to God with my trust, knowing that all I could do was change my attitude. I call the result growing pains.
I was promoted at work to a manager in training, then when my former boss quit, I got her job. I achieved a new level of barista certification. My old college roommate got engaged. My brother got engaged. My friend from school got engaged to my cousin. I turned another year older and I realized that I was too focused on what would happen next that I forgot to enjoy the moment. From then on, I let myself enjoy the moments and feel the pain.
I learned to take stress at work in stride, to do everything in my power to handle stressful situations, and let the rest go. I learned so much from the incredible women I work with. I learned to do my job the best I can, but to not take it or myself so seriously.
I took a road trip to the mountains of Pennsylvania with the man I love. We took a road trip to Baltimore for my brother's wedding where we had a great time and I gained a sister. I took a road trip with some family to Iowa for the wedding of my friend and my cousin and I was so happy I kept crying.
I came home and celebrated two years with the man I continue to fall deeply in love with everyday. We geared up for the holidays and our big road trip to Minnesota at New Year's, but tragedy hit. A close family friend was diagnosed with stage four cancer. He fought bravely, and I prayed that he would be able to at least have a peaceful Christmas at home. God took him to his eternal Home for Christmas, and we mourned our loss.
The holidays carried on, as did the wake and the funeral. Family I hadn't seen in years came in town to visit and that bittersweet week was one of the longest of my life.
Then came the epic road trip to Minnesota, the one we'd been gearing up for for quite some time. It was an adventure through snow and ice and negative temperatures and the stomach flu, and the culmination of an unexpectedly action-packed year. It was a beautiful wedding and a chance to see friends I hadn't seen in years.
And as we drove home through a dark Indiana night after the snow had stopped falling and traffic had lightened, the wind kicked up and in the distance were red blinking lights. They were the big white windmills, eerily lighting our way, and I thought the same thing I do every time I see them: wouldn't it be fun if instead of being white they were colorful, like giant pinwheels?! (If you disagree, you're lying to yourself.)
And it reminded me of something he had said in one of our many conversations during that 15 hour road trip, how some people are the campfires that bring other people together. "I was not the campfire," he said. "I was the weird kid with the marshmallow stick." I was the weird kid who avoided the campfire altogether and hid in the cabinet to stuff my face with marshmallows (or so my mother tells me. . .I was four).
So even though this year was off to a weird and rocky start, I am determined that it will be a good one. We will paint the windmills to look like pinwheels, eat marshmallows and be happy.
I think most people who ask that question are referring to Christmas shopping--have I gotten my shopping done? Yes, because I didn't really do gifts this year. It's not that I didn't want to give gifts--I generally enjoy giving them much more than receiving them. It's that I can't really afford it this year, so I'm making Christmas breakfast for the fam instead.
When I get this question though, I hear--are you ready for this retail nightmare to end? The answer to that is YES. I look forward to spending 24 hours with my family and not having to worry that I'll get a call from work. I am SO ready for that.
The real question though should be--am I ready for Christ? I wonder if I've done enough this Advent to prepare for the coming of Jesus. My holy hours were limited, my prayers barely formed, my Advent reading only a third finished, so it would seem that I haven't done nearly enough to prepare. But when I think about the infant Jesus coming to save me from my sins, coming to love the lonely, to comfort the suffering--I know that my tired eyes and weary bones and exhausted spirit are more than ready to kneel beside the manger and welcome Jesus.
It's because I have nothing left to give--no gifts, no more effort to put into my work, nothing but my weak and weary self. And the really humbling thing is that that is enough. That is all He wants. For me, for you, for the impatient and frantic last-minute customers, for us all to come to Him. He is the Gift, and He wants to give Himself to us.
It's an awe-inspiring and humbling love. Come, let us adore Him!
I have a love/hate relationship with The Hunger Games. I never read the books, but I saw the first film (for my original thoughts on it, check out my post Two Movies). I was appalled, but intrigued. I wasn't planning on going to see the sequel, but I knew that it would probably happen. Yes, this past Saturday the intrigue won out, and I decided to go see the sequel Catching Fire with my sister and brother-in-law.
Most of the movie, I was chewing on my sweatshirt strings whispering "No, no don't do it. . . This is awful." It's a roller coaster of emotions, supported by incredible acting and a spot-on soundtrack, but then it just ended, leaving us in intense anticipation of the next movie. As we left the theater all I could say was that it was awful.
But something about it was good. I couldn't find the words to express my conflicting emotions at the time, but I have found them now. [Caution, there may be spoilers to follow!]
These stories are unnecessarily violent and brutal, but the violence isn't glorified. In the beginning of the film, the "winners" of the previous Hunger Games travel to each of the districts and face the families of the youth who died so that the "winners" could live. We see the pain on the families' faces, on the survivors' faces. We hear the remorse in their voices.
Rebellion begins to break out--this senseless killing of children has gone on too long and the people have found the hope to fight against it. The hope comes from the example of winner Katniss Everdeen (I really hate that name). Her courage in the face of fear, her sacrifice and love amid the cruelty proves that there is still goodness in humanity.
In a dystopian society of a people afraid who are ruled by phonies, she steps up as a woman who is true to herself. In a world of imbalance sputtering along in lukewarm fear and inaction, Katniss defies tyranny and fear. She is her self-sacrificing self, not the fearsome monster the Capitol wants her to be. She stays true to herself and her family, and her example of simple defiance against the tyranny sparks a movement among the people to make a change and break free from the chains that bind them. As St. Catherine of Siena said, "If you are what you should be, you will set the world ablaze." That is exactly what Katniss, the "Girl on Fire," does.
The film was very well done. The acting was in many cases phenomenal (I'm thinking Jennifer Lawrence, Jena Malone, Josh Hutcherson, Elizabeth Banks, Donald Sutherland, and Stanley Tucci to name a few of my favorites). The character development that was lacking in the first film came to be in the second. The love triangle between Katniss, Peeta (an equally awful name that reminds me of chips--or People Eating Tasty Animals--that belongs to the man who saved her life), and Gale (her childhood hunting partner) becomes deeper and more tangled.
We see the characters all beginning to realize that their time could be up at any minute, and we see them come to the decision to use their time to fight for what is right, even though it will probably cost them their lives.
So yes, I got sucked into the story and the characters and I love them. But there's still the violence and the unbelievable setting and I hate them.
Still, at the center is the story of a girl who struggles to be counter-cultural, to break the mold of what high society and politicians believe she should be. As a young Catholic woman in 21st century America, I can relate to that. I don't want Katniss's name, but I would take her spirit and courage any day.
I love Jesus, but I don't always act like it. No that's not true. I usually act like it, but I rarely live it like I mean it.
In every moment I am faced with the choice to embrace or deny Him. Unfortunately, I don't usually think about how the many little decisions I make each day will make Him feel, but how they will make me feel. It's so easy to deny Him, but loving Him hurts and requires more than merely going through the motions.
We are called to see Christ in others, but it's hard. It's hard to see Christ in someone who hurts us or our pride. It's hard to see Christ in someone who is being irrational or high maintenance. It's hard to see Christ in a spoiled brat or in your crazy, dysfunctional family.
I find that when I've ignored Christ in these people for too long, I eventually find myself out of excuses and on my knees in tears, all those ways I failed to love staring me in the face in the form of cuts and bruises and open, bleeding wounds on the cross.
It's hard to see Christ in others, but it's harder still to see what my sins have done to our Savior. It's hard to get angry about slow drivers when I'm looking at the Cross. It's hard to justify my lifestyle when I read about starving children in Africa.
Just above all those wounds that I've inflicted, though, I see the face of Christ. My tears wash a drop of blood off his feet, and He is consoled. I am consoled. We are not alone.
It's only when we embrace the Cross and all that comes with it--the pain, the heartache, the humiliation, the loneliness--that we are able to find that sliver of grace that allows us to smile patiently at the person annoying us, or to accept the humbling knowledge that we are the ones in the wrong. This grace is what opens our heart to true love--love for Christ and love for others.
I wish I was better at remembering that throughout my days. I wish I could look at every person I encounter and see Christ, but I usually only see myself. I wish I could live life as it is with a heart full of love and mercy, and not try to make it something it's not.
Whenever I find that I've strayed far from my Love, when I feel the weight of my sins as they catch up to me, when I fall to my knees trying to wade through the mess I've made, I remember how I fell in love with Jesus. I remember how He held me, how He picked up the pieces of my broken heart and slowly mended them back together. I remember how He is always faithful, that no matter how many times I fall, whenever I look up, I still see His loving face.
I remember this divine romance, how He lured me away from the darkness and into the light. I remember that it's as true today as it was when this romance first began. Some days I don't feel it, but I always know it.
I don't really know what the point of this post is, except that it's a reminder for me to make my religion "less of a theory and more a love affair" (G.K. Chesterton). It's less about living by strict rules and guidelines of what's right and wrong, and more about living with an open heart full of love and mercy.
Because that's what I've learned--growing in faith requires letting yourself fall in love with God, and Him with you. It's a good thing to remember as we get closer to Christmas. The holidays aren't about the things we get each other, the fun and crazy parties, the decorations, or the crazy-good shopping deals. The holidays are about a baby, a baby whose Mother opened her heart completely to God and He filled her womb with His Life. I can only imagine how desperately in love the mother of God was when she first held the Savior in her arms. To have grown the Son of God within her, to look upon his face--there could be no greater beauty, no truer love.
This divine romance is one we are all called to, to embrace Christ in every moment of our lives, to allow Him to grow within us and consume us. I aspire.
I was sitting outside a bar on a Friday afternoon when I saw this book trailer and my heart did a little dance:
My boyfriend and I had only recently decided that the time and financial commitment to drive an hour to and from a two hour Theology of the Body class 16 weeks in a row was just too much for us right now. It was a difficult decision, because I had been looking forward to Into the Heart for a long time, but we just couldn't swing it. Certain that another more feasible opportunity to take the class would come up in time, I determined to at least find a good Theology of the Body book that I could read and reflect on in the meantime--and here one was, not only dealing with human sexuality, but exploring every aspect of life: These Beautiful Bones: An Everyday Theology of the Body by Emily Stimpson.
This beautiful work is broken down into easy to digest chapters, beginning with an overview of Theology of the Body, then exploring topics such as work, manners, fashion, food, technology, and prayer. Stimpson presents her deep insight as practical advice combined with research, humor, and personal experience. Each chapter is also followed by a mini-essay on a special topic relative to the subject.
Easy and delightful to read, she presents an everyday theology of the body that will resound with readers. I found myself delighted when Stimpson pointed out something I've been thinking for a long time that I couldn't put into words or the big picture, and challenged when she revealed the deeper meaning of something that I wrote off as wholly unimportant.
Stimpson reveals to readers the big picture of how modernism has transformed our culture and affected the way we see ourselves and each other. She follows with explanations of how what we do with our bodies affects our souls, and simple advice on how to live richer, fuller lives. She reminds us who we are, and how to be our best selves, that this life isn't all about us, but about communion too.
I would like to break down the book a little bit and go over some highlights here, but I know that if I started I wouldn't be able to stop. You can be sure that I will bring it up in future posts too, so I'll leave you with the insistence that you should read These Beautiful Bones. Whether or not you care about theology of the body or Catholicism, you will find that it's 100% worth reading.
