A Baby for Christmas

The day before the world was supposed to end, I watched life enter into it.

It was the birth of my nephew, and though my mom and sister thought for sure I'd be completely grossed out and scarred for life, I was in awe rather than disgust.

Life in its humble beginnings isn't exactly pretty--no sunshine and butterflies.  It's gory and painful, but it's how we all come into the world.  Our lives begin quietly and in secret, but we enter the world wailing and bloody.

When God sent His Son to walk among us, He didn't miss a beat.  Christ entered fully into the human experience.  When He entered the world, it wasn't even in a clean hospital with doctors, nurses and specialists around monitoring His heartbeat.  (Can you imagine Jesus' heart being monitored?  I think the machine would explode.)  He was in a stable with smelly animals and their poo.

I was thinking about all this as I cuddled my nephew close on Christmas morning.  The floor in the living room around the Christmas tree was littered with gifts and wrapping paper. The baby, just recently changed and fed, slept through it all.  He didn't care about the adorable tuxedo onesie I got for him.  He was just content to be warm, dry, and fed.

And I wondered about all the people who weren't those things on Christmas morning.  Jesus came for them, not for the pile of presents under our tree.  We always say, "It's Jesus' birthday, not ours, so we should just be thankful for what we have."  But we still give each other presents, stuff we don't need.  And what do we give Jesus?  An hour of church time?  No, that's what He gives us--Himself in the Eucharist, made possible by the Incarnation.

"To whom much is given much is expected." (Luke 12:48)  That verse haunts me.  It rattles the walls of my conviction and makes me dig deeper and wonder how firmly I really believe.  Because if I really believed it--in God's love and mercy and goodness--it shouldn't scare me at all.

I found these videos on Ann Voskamp's blog (author of One Thousand Gifts).  You're welcome.
 

Jesus wept.

My English advisor and professor asked us once what the most powerful passage in the Gospel is.  I racked my brain wondering if it was a trick question--wouldn't it be different for everyone, depending on each person's perspective?  But she told us, "Jesus wept."  Two simple words, a noun and a verb, three syllables, and they express the depth of the mystery.

Jesus, the Word of God incarnate in the flesh, became man.  Fully human, and also fully divine.  I know that I tend to take on the attitude that because Jesus is also God, He had a somewhat easy pass through life.  Sure, the Passion of His death and resurrection was pretty brutal, but again, He's God.  He can do anything!  And He has a superhuman strength with which to do it--right?  Wrong.  He has the same strength and emotions as the rest of us.

When His friend died, and even when He knew that in a few moments He would raise his friend from the dead for the greater glory of God, He wept.

The mystery of the Incarnation is expressed in these two words.  That God Himself suffered loss, experienced the pain of losing a loved one and, even with great faith that all was for God's glory, He wept.

We watch the news and weep and know that God weeps with us.  But we can trust that He receives those children in His merciful love with open arms, just as He embraces the world from the cross.

Eat the Mystery

When we find ourselves groping along, famished for more, we can choose.  When we are despairing, we can choose to live as Israelites gathering manna.  For forty long years, God's people daily eat manna--a substance whose name literally means "What is it?"  Hungry, they choose to gather up that which is baffling.  They fill on that which has no meaning.  More than 14,600 days they take their daily nourishment from that which they don't comprehend.  They find soul-filling in the inexplicable.

 They eat the mystery.   ~One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp

We are wandering like the Israelites in the desert of faith on our journey to the Promised Land.  We have the choice to continue following the path of love to Truth, to continue participating in the Mass and eating the mystery that is the Eucharist, and letting that be enough for now.

I know that for those of us who have recently graduated from college in this economy, mystery is often the only answer we know.  It can be frustrating while we strive to figure out where to go, what to do next--unless we embrace the mystery that is this life, eat this mystery, and savor it.  Savor the bitterness that comes with the sugar and spice, because it is all part of the gift.

Thankfully

A dare to live fully right where you are.  I took that dare in the form of One Thousand Gifts, a book by Ann Voskamp.  As I read through the book, I was in awe--it was exactly the kind of book that I would want to write.  The rich, poetic style of her writing speaks the longings in my heart and gives a name to that 'thing' I've been grasping at--gratitude.

She takes a challenge to write down one thousand things she's thankful for, and the result is this book.  It is not a list of her gifts, but her spiritual journey laid out in raw honesty as she discovers the beauty in the ordinary (which is what I aim to do with this blog) and never pretends that it's easy.

Last week I kept reflecting on a certain section of the book as I ate too much food and thought about how the Amish believe that every day is a day of thanksgiving.  We even sing that every year at Thanksgiving Eve mass, "Every day is a day of thanksgiving," but I struggle to live it.  Most of the time I act like a spoiled brat and complain about everything, but I aspire.  I guess I have this idea that if I remind myself enough, and if I can share these aspirations with even one other person who might read this blog, eventually, I will be able to live fully in true thanksgiving.  Until then, I am going to reread this book, and share a bit of it for you here.

Ann refers to Luke 17: 15-19 when Jesus heals the ten lepers, and only one returns to thank him.  Jesus says, "Your faith has made you whole."  But wait, hasn't Jesus already healed them?  Yes, physically.  But only the grateful man was saved wholly, because he returned to God in thanksgiving.

"We only enter into the full life if our faith gives thanks.
. . .Thanksgiving is the evidence of our acceptance of whatever He gives.  Thanksgiving is the manifestation of our Yes! to His grace.
. . .At the Eucharist, Christ breaks His heart to heal ours..." 

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life (John 6:54)
We must receive the Eucharist every day, but not just by going through the motions of daily mass.  Yes, we should absolutely receive the actual Eucharist at mass as often as possible, but we must also receive the Eucharist, the grace of salvation, with open hearts all day every day.  True worship is living the mass in our daily lives, receiving all that comes to us and giving it back to God, and in turn, giving it back to others--communion.

"All those years thinking I was saved and had said my yes to God, but was really living the no. . .Because I wasn't taking everything in my life and returning to Jesus, falling at His feet and thanking Him.  I sit still, blinded.  This is why I sat all those years in church but my soul holes had never fully healed.
     Eucharisteo, the Greek word with the hard meaning and the harder meaning to live--this is the only way from empty to full.
     I have just one word.  A word to seize and haul up out of a terminal nightmare, a word for fearless dying, for saved, fully healed living, a word that works the miracle that heals the soul and raises the very dead to life. . .Eucharisteo."

 Still what sticks out most, "Christ breaks His heart to heal ours."  That's selfless love.  I aspire.

Made With Love

The coffee grinder at work sprays coffee grounds all over the place like it's its job.  It's not.  Its job is actually to grind the coffee and shoot it straight down into the proper awaiting receptacle.  But for some reason the static or the pressure or something causes the black grounds to spray all over the front of the machine, the counter, the ice machine, the floor, my hands--they get everywhere, all over everything.

It's a little annoying, but only because it happens consistently throughout the day in the middle of everything else, even as I vainly attempt to sweep up the grounds with the paintbrush we keep handy, customers holler behind me that they'd like a grande latte nonfat no foam and I smile and nod and drop the brush and move to the espresso grinder and portion out more coffee grounds, then wipe away the extras.

Coffee grounds are everywhere.  They cling to my glasses, stick to my hands, get under my fingernails.  It seems like no matter how hard I try to clean them up, they keep coming back.  Like no matter how hard I try to be positive, to better myself, to be holy, I keep complaining, making excuses, and putting myself first.  The mess I've made just seems to get messier.  Even as I begin to teeter on the brink of despair, however, someone offers me love and encouragement to keep the faith.

So the other day I was brushing away coffee grounds while people and their chatter buzzed around me.  I sighed and prayed, "Dear Lord, this is for you."  And suddenly, it wasn't coffee grounds--it was the blood of Jesus.  I was at the foot of the cross with Mary, John, and Mary Magdalene.  The blood was the result of my sins, but it was poured out freely, given up for me.  I was the soldier who pierced the side of Christ, baptized in the blood and water that poured out--mercy.

Those grounds, in that moment, were God's will for me.  They weren't my will, but when I accepted them as God's and offered them to Him, I saw that they were my small, seemingly insignificant way of participating in the redemptive suffering of Christ.  What I do isn't much, but to offer my work with love, to serve drinks with the desire to quench the thirst of Christ, to smile at the cranky and keep my snarky comments to myself, to not give in to the frustration that surrounds me--this is true freedom.

Mother Teresa said, "To work without love is slavery."  We are all called to true freedom.  It doesn't come by our efforts, but by a movement of our will, an alignment of our hearts with God's sprinkled with His Mercy and Grace.

As Mumford & Sons sings, "There is a design, an alignment, a cry of my heart to see the beauty of love as it was made to be.  Love it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you, it will set you free.  Be more like the man you were made to be."  When we allow this love, this mercy and grace, to embrace us and fill us, we will become who God created us to be.

*          *          *

I also have been reading the Catechism everyday for the Year of Faith, and this passage from today was too relevant.  God knows what's up when we don't have a clue.  God has control when we have none.  He is Good, and He makes all things Good and all things new--we must believe and trust in that.

272     Faith in God the Father Almighty can be put to the test by the experience of evil and suffering. God can sometimes seem to be absent and incapable of stopping evil. But in the most mysterious way God the Father has revealed his almighty power in the voluntary humiliation and Resurrection of his Son, by which he conquered evil. Christ crucified is thus "the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men." It is in Christ's Resurrection and exaltation that the Father has shown forth "the immeasurable greatness of his power in us who believe".

273     Only faith can embrace the mysterious ways of God's almighty power. This faith glories in its weaknesses in order to draw to itself Christ's power. The Virgin Mary is the supreme model of this faith, for she believed that "nothing will be impossible with God", and was able to magnify the Lord: "For he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name."

Better Than Hibernation

It's the time of year when I just want to hibernate.  Getting out of my warm cozy bed and taking on a cold, dark day is a daunting task.  In fact, it's the last thing I want to do when I wake up for work at five in the morning--but it's the first thing I have to do.

As I mumble "Lord, I give this day to You.  Give me the strength to get through it," and hobble out of bed, I act against my will, and that act gives me strength for the rest of the day.

I drive down the highway under the satin black sky with my car still half-covered in frost and Mumford & Sons singing "Babel" to me and all seems right with the world.  It's cold and dark and uncomfortable, but it's my gift to God.

The days that begin in early mornings are not a breeze, nor are they very pleasant, but for some reason, they are my favorite.  Maybe it's because that first act against my will helps me to offer the rest up to God, so that I automatically offer up all the unpleasant, frustrating things that happen during the day with trust that it's part of God's plan of grace.

Doing this doesn't mean life is all sunshine and roses, and it doesn't really even make it easier.  It just makes it worth it.

because I want to write

in order to write:

You have to be emotionally, spiritually, and physically fit; have to order your whole life around your writing schedule; have to develop the emotional hide of a rhinoceros to not simply die, as one dies under a stoning, beneath the endless barrage of insult, humiliation, rejection, disappointment, failure.  And at the same time the only reason you do it at all, or can do it, or want to do it, is because of this incredibly tender heart, this heart you're a little ashamed of, that makes you different enough in the first place that writing is your only refuge, your only means of enduring the world.

                                          ~Heather King, Redeemed

AMDG

My brother shared this video with me, so I'm sharing it here, because I haven't been able to form any coherent sentences for this blog in awhile, and after listening to this, I realized what I've been lacking.

All glory to God.

keep it real

I am a work in progress--we all are.

Sometimes it feels like all work and no progress, but this is life.

I find that these are the times that God has not abandoned me at all but is working in such tiny, detail-oriented ways that I can't see Him past my own anxiety.

So I keep working and pray and trust that progress is around the corner.

That doesn't mean I don't also collapse in a puddle of tears after each step, but hey, I'm just keeping it real.

Before glory came the cross.

Tired

Tired--but "the kind of tired that can't be fixed by any amount of sleep."
Restless--"Our hearts are restless until they rest in You."
And we wander round in circles.

I watched a movie about Mother Teresa
and I am reading a book of letters by her.
I want that kind of tireless faith,
and the key is resting in Him, desiring only Him,
drinking in His will as if it were the water of life.
It is,
and I thirst.

Sometimes I think I have to be the strong one, to keep working, keep moving,
but He says, "Abide in my love. . .without me, you can do nothing."

"Stop struggling and the kingdom of God will be accomplished through you.  
Sit down on the floor, like a baby, and Christ will bend down and lift you up." (Heather King) 

I can't stop thinking about this, so I thought I better share it.

If you liked the song that I added at the end of my post See You In the Eucharist, you might also be interested in the following video.  Ums, likes, and you knows aside, this beautiful, heartfelt testimony changed my life.

*Danielle Rose performed this concert before entering a convent.  After two years discerning in the convent, she discovered that it was not the life God was calling her to live.  Instead, God wanted her to continue sharing her music with the world, and she is now a music missionary.*

The Little Way

We stumble along this little way to holiness beginning like children pushing good-deed beads in our pockets for kind words and doing our chores without complaining.  Then life happens and we get hurt and we grow up and suddenly everything seems much more complicated, holiness seems lifetimes away.  I am tempted to whine and complain and stomp my feet until I get my way.  St. Therese of Lisieux (the Little Flower, whose feast we celebrate today!) speaks of our need to be childlike, but there is a difference between childlike and childish.

In the words of St. Therese:
"I have always wanted to become a saint.  Unfortunately when I have compared myself with the saints, I have always found that there is the same difference between the saints and me as there is between a mountain whose summit is lost in the clouds and a humble grain of sand trodden underfoot by passers-by.  Instead of being discouraged, I told myself:  God would not make me wish for something impossible and so, in spite of my littleness, I can aim at being a saint.  It is impossible for me to grow bigger, so I put up with myself as I am, with all my countless faults.  But I will look for some means of going to heaven by a little way which is very short and very straight, a little way that is quite new.

"We live in an age of inventions.  We need no longer climb laboriously up flights of stairs; in well-to-do houses there are lifts.  And I was determined to find a lift to carry me to Jesus, for I was far too small to climb the steep stairs of perfection.  So I sought in holy Scripture some idea of what this lift I wanted would be, and I read these words:  'Whosoever is a little one, come to me.' It is your arms, Jesus, that are the lift to carry me to heaven.  And so there is no need for me to grow up:  I must stay little and become less and less."

Even though I've learned and read about Therese for as long as I can remember, I never really understood her until I read Heather King's book Shirt of Flame:  A Year With Saint Therese.  In Ms. King's words:

"Forget trying to achieve your own holiness, Therese seemed to be saying:  you are infinitely too feeble, weak, and misguided to accomplish anything on your own.  You're like a bleating lamb, wandering blindly around with your divided, wayward heart.  You're like a lost sheep, trying to get spiritual good marks by denying your humanity.  You're like a straying member of the flock, off in a corner trying to heal your own wounds and relieve your own obsessions.  Stop struggling and the kingdom of God will be accomplished through you.  Sit down on the floor, like a baby, and Christ will bend down and lift you up.

That is where you will get the strength to be a martyr.  That is where you will get the courage to make your way through the suffering and loneliness of daily life.  That is where you will get the joy to turn to the lost lamb beside you and assure him or her, as Christ assured the repentant thief as he hung on the cross:  "Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise" (Luke 23:43)."

"Be not afraid to tell Jesus that you love Him; even though it be without feeling, this is the way to oblige Him to help you, and carry you like a little child too feeble to walk." ~St. Therese

And so we can submit ourselves to the will of God with humble confidence and know that all is grace.  Happy feast day, Little Flowers!

See You In The Eucharist

It was my first road trip in My Little Red Car, and I was itching to escape Ohio.

I headed North and wondered again why it is that the sky seems so much closer in Michigan than it does in Ohio.  The countryside I fell in love with a few years ago--the green and gold and blue that stretched forever, dotted by red barns and silver silos and fluffy white clouds so close it seemed you could touch them--was less romantic this time around, more worn, yet still just as loved.  Nothing had changed but me.

In Michigan and Illinois, I explored small towns and churches and coffee shops--Ugly Mugs and Cheeky Monkeys and All Chocolate Kitchens--with some of my best friends.  We talked and laughed and my heart healed from all the time in-between our last goodbye and this hello.

The goodbyes came around again, like they always do, and  most of us didn't know when the next time we'd say hello would be.  The last goodbye was to a dear friend after morning Mass, and then I hit the road home.

It was a long road, full of traffic and construction (and a really slow Megabus hogging the left lane for way too long).  But the sun was shining and the trees were swaying and I stopped at Fair Oaks Farm in somewhere, Indiana just because their advertisement "dairy-ed" me.  And then they "double dairy-ed" me.  I can't resist a good play on words, or a latte made with super-fresh whole milk, or cows.

I let the joy and laughter and memories of the weekend follow me home.  I was so thankful for my adventure, and so glad to be back.

I can't help but wonder again at how different it is, those three or four or five years of life at college compared to the rest of our lives. How unfair it all seems that the people we grow and experience so much with suddenly aren't there anymore, at least not as often.  Still, I hold these people in my heart--anyone I have ever loved or have ever come across, I hold them in my heart.

When I went to Mass the day after I came home, and my heart was bursting with thanks for the last few days and for the re-connections it had made, I felt my friends with me, and it's no surprise really.

My household sisters say goodbye with the phrase "I'll see you in the Eucharist."  And it's true.  When we participate in Mass, we participate in the heavenly feast, with all the angels and saints and souls.  When we receive the Body and Blood of Christ, we receive His whole Body.  We are the Body, and so we receive one another.  The love that binds us--Love Itself--is there on the altar, ours for the taking, for the receiving for the giving.  When we receive Communion, we are in communion.

So, though I miss you all, my dear friends, I will see you in the Eucharist.

I Stumbled Upon Grace

It's been a strange week.

I have a lot of ranting and raving I'd like to share here about the usual suspects, i.e. abortion, smart phones, the stupid, childish game they call politics. . .I could go on, but fear not.  I have instead decided to post something positive(!), a blog post I stumbled upon recently.

The post "I Don't Wait Anymore," is from a blog called Grace for the Road.  In it, the writer writes about the purity ring she received when she was sixteen, with the inscription "True Love Waits."  She writes about how this message affected her view (and the views of many young women) of love, of life, of God, of faith.

This is a topic that I am seriously passionate about--not just saving sex for marriage, but letting God be first, front and center, loving Him above all else, and trusting in Him enough to live a full life, instead of sitting around "waiting" for it to begin.  I used to write another blog with that focus, on being single and struggling to live that vocation according to God's will, so I thought it only fitting to share the wealth I found in this post.

Read and share!
http://gracefortheroad.com/2012/02/03/idontwait/

A Mirthday Celebration

Our family has had a tradition of praying the rosary together on Sunday evenings for as long as I can remember.  When we were younger/ unruly teenagers, it usually took quite some time to drag everyone away from our television shows or homework or whatever it was we did on Sunday nights that was so much more important than family time.  Once gathered and calmed down, we knelt in a circle, brought to our knees by Dad's insistence (until we were deemed old enough to not have to kneel but usually did anyway out of guilt) and recited our prayers.

Somehow, something or other would end up making us laugh, sometimes to the point of tears.  Sometimes just one or two of us (almost always me--my brother just had to look at me for me to lose it), sometimes all of us.  Dad was usually the rock and kept praying even if the rest of us were doubled over and unable to breathe.  (As long as Mom laughed with us, we didn't get in trouble.)

Last night, in honor of Our Lady's birthday, my parents and I gathered to pray to our Mother.  We lit a candle in front of the Our Lady of Guadalupe icon in our living room, sang "happy birthday," and began praying.  Mom was racing through the prayers so fast it was funny.  Dad and I asked her to slow down, but instead, she just started laughing.  Then I started laughing.

For the next three out of five decades, Mom and I were too overcome with laughter and tears to pray out loud.  Dad kept chugging along, chuckling every once in awhile at our squeaking.  I tried to join in again for the fourth decade, but somewhere in the middle I lost it again.

You may think we are completely irreverent, or just prone to ridiculously uncontrollable laughter.  You may be right.  But really, this spirit of joy springs from the love that binds us together--the love of God.  Our faith brings us together--sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes sorrowfully, sometimes hilariously.  And for all the grief we give each other, we are connected by blood and in this family for life.  Thank God.

FoCuS

"Happy Labor Day!" they say, and you wonder what that means when you're the one laboring and you're not happy.  
But coffee sparks the soul, gives you energy to turn the frown upside down so that you focus on the happy--
GRATITUDE--noun 1) I have a job.  2) I am able to work.  3) ‎When I get off, I'm going to go home and watch White Christmas and eat delicious pasta and drink peppermint tea--because I can.
Still, so many reasons to complain bubble up and you just want to, but. . .

"Now let me tell you that the will of God is all that is necessary, and what it does not give you is of no use to you at all. My friends, you lack nothing. You would be very ashamed if you knew what the experiences you call setbacks, upheavals, pointless disturbances, and tedious annoyances really are. You would realize that your complaints about them are nothing more nor less than blasphemies--though that never occurs to you. Nothing happens to you except by the will of God, and yet his beloved children curse it because they do not know it for what it is."

-Fr. Jean Pierre de Caussade, Abandonment to Divine Providence

What gets me the most is that these complaints are "nothing more nor less than blasphemies."  Blasphemy, unfaithfulness, lack of trust, ingratitude--all of these separate us from God, turn our focus to the dark un-pleasantries rather than to the greater goodness.

God works in mysterious ways.  I'm beginning to understand that to trust means embracing the mystery in all its seeming injustice.  I, therefore, reaffirm my trust in His Mercy.  All is out of my control and all in His, and so, all is well.

*thanks for the quote, Justine!

reality

As I drove home late last night, I scoffed at the sprinklers watering the trees on the medians that separate the sides of the street in an upper class neighborhood.  Water spilled into the street and I thought, There are people in Africa dying because they don't have clean water, yet our tax dollars pay for clean water for the trees.  

Don't get me wrong, I love trees--probably more than the average person loves trees.  But I don't love trees more than I love the average person.

Or so I like to tell myself.

I got home and brushed my teeth with the water running and flushed the toilet and took a hot shower and poured myself a cup of water to soothe my allergy-scorched throat.

And now I wonder. . .

once upon an adventure

the world is yours so take it over.

take over the road and find a farm 

in Lima

where lies the piece of your heart you've been missing.

soak in the shine

of the best monday you've had in a decade

then eat the famous burgers

and sweet sugar pie.

stick your arm out the window and let your hand fly

in the rush of the country breeze.

this road leads to anywhere

somewhere you've never been

so take it and find yourself

in Bell-frickin, Ohio,

heading toward West Libertarianism

until you stop for ice cream

just because the sign is hot pink flashing

lights lined with lime

and the best butterscotch milkshake

ever.

spit your gum out the other person's window

just because it's fun to watch them jump

and hear them squeal.

then drive

and watch the sun dust the golden rowed fields

with a brush dipped in rose and lavender, 

light dripping over treetops

and you know your heart is free,

and safe.

drive--

sing old 90s music and be young--

until the end of the road.

then turn and drive

back home where you began

because tomorrow is tuesday.

Then Sings My Soul

We went to see Mumford & Sons last week.  Simply put, it was amazing.  I was freaking out.

It was a much bigger outdoor venue than we had anticipated, so, rather than fight the crowd and get stuck in the middle of thousands of sweaty drunk people, we stood near the back where we had a clear shot of the stage and the big screens that magnified the four specks that were Mumford & Sons in the flesh.

For two years I have loved Mumford & Sons.  I first listened to their album as I drove down country roads into the sunset (windows down, of course).  In a time of my life when I felt lost, trapped, and confused, their music filled me with an incredible sense of freedom and empowerment.  Their spirited soundtrack made me feel alive and lifted my soul.

So when the sun set behind the stage and I heard them begin to play this live

I was freaking out.

I realized at one point that my hands were clasped together because the beauty and power of their music had lifted my soul in prayer.  It was a sort of spiritual experience for me.  The energy was palpable. We watched the lights move over the people--like raindrops on a pond, as Nick so aptly described it.  The band used that energy of the people like an instrument.  In fact, they used every element--the energy, the instruments, their voices, the lyrics, our location (they said "O-H" we said "I-O")--to create something alive that moved through us and we were all a part of something bigger than ourselves.  We were a part of their music, a part of their show, a communion of lovers of music, hearts beating and souls searching for truth, beauty, freedom, love.

The Prodigal Patient

"You have beautiful teeth," the dentist and his hygienists told me  "But they're extremely weak and cavity-prone.  There's not really anything you can do about that."

This was their explanation for why, after I'd spent the last six months putting extra work into taking special care of my teeth, I returned to find out that I had two cavities.

That incident was a few years ago, and I kind of gave up on the dentist after that--why bother?  I wondered.  If there's nothing I can do, why go through the torture of sitting in a sticky chair with a blinding light in my eyes while someone scrapes my teeth and pokes my gums with a piece of metal?  I remembered all the times I'd spent in the chair in my youth with my mouth propped open by metal contraptions, my gums shot up with Novocaine, and my teeth filled with who-knows-what. *shudder*  No, I decided to spare myself anymore of that pain.

Lately though, I've had a little voice in my ear telling me how important it is to visit the dentist regularly, how it's good to have your teeth cleaned by someone who knows what they're doing every once in awhile as a refresher and a preventative for future disease and decay.

Finally, the prodigal patient returned.  I was received with a fair scolding, then loaded down with a new toothbrush, free floss, and coupons for fluoride rinse to encourage me to do better this time around.

A few days later, I stood in line for confession and studied the crucifix at the front of the church.  I suddenly imagined Jesus as a dentist, scraping away at the plaque on my soul.  Like my teeth, I am weak (and sinful), and there's not much I can do about it except keep trying to do what He tells me--and keep coming back to the sacraments for a deep cleaning, for guidance, for grace.

Maybe that's the best part--God  not only receives us back with open arms, but He also doesn't scold (though sometimes the transformation comes with pain), and He always loads us up with grace for the journey, to restore us, to nourish us so that we can do better next time.

inertia

an object in motion wants to stay in motion

but not me

i fly and flit then come back down

and burrow in my happy.

pass by a gas station late at night
and hear the murmur of souls filling up
to keep on the journey.
there they are but i am gone
and keep moving
in my little red car driving
with the windows down
and i keep moving--where does that mean i am?

opportunities make themselves known,

but we remain faceless friends.

the future about to take shape goes back to what it always has been--
i am tired and oddly relieved

to be out of control and in the familiar.

i would have stopped time watching shooting stars in a boat on a lake,

but then i wouldn't have lived for months in the alps with my second family.
i would have stopped time riding for freedom in the country,
but then i wouldn't have splashed through sprinklers in a moonlight serenade.

these are mere moments--

sprinkles

of grace
in a cup of black coffee
in a heart beating fear.

When Life Gets You Down. . .Stick Your Head Out the Window

My brain was on the fritz.  It was a combination of weak morning coffee, writer's block, and then a wave of indecision.

I vocalized my inner turmoil (entirely consisting of petty first world problems) as we drove down the street.

He said, "Look, do you see that dog?"

I saw the dog in the car ahead of us, his head sticking out the window to catch the breeze.  "Yes."

"That dog couldn't be happier than he is right now. Could. Not. Be. Happier.  You need to be like the dog!  Just be.  Be the dog."

I took his hand and squeezed it.  "I should," I said.  "I really should be more like the dog."  But I was still thinking about my indecision.  "I just, I shouldn't get a latte.  They're so expensive."

He rolled his eyes.  "I'll buy it for you."

"No, I don't want you to--"

He rolled down his window.  "I'll be out here if you need me."

And he stuck his head out.  Like the dog.

Out of Control

      Sometimes the obscurities of life become overwhelming and it feels like I simply can't get a grip on anything--nothing is in my control and it all seems to be slipping, slipping away. . .like the dream that feels real, but the details of which fade quickly in the light of day.  Try as I might, I can't fit the pieces together to make sense of anything.  My world crumbles around me and I am helpless to stop it.
      In the turmoil, I desire peace--answers to put my mind at ease.  But the more I grasp for answers, the more unsettled I become.  It's when I remember that there is Something bigger than me at work--love, the love of God, the will of God moving and working through me.  This is my anchor of peace.  I always seem to know that it's there, that it's all I need, but living this truth requires being mindful of it constantly--constant trust and surrender in acceptance of the mystery. 
      I've come to find that the journey of faith isn't about what I plan to do with my life or my future.  It is about the becoming, about learning how to know and do and understand God's will in the moments.  It's being my best self and putting forth my best effort in all I do.  It requires practice and patience, but leads to finding joy simply in taking care of life's responsibilities in the present, and responding to everything with love.

"That Christ's love is extravagant means that it is always better to err on the side of hungering too much, rather than too little; better to wear our hearts on our sleeves rather than let them harden from cynicism and despair; better to be willing to let our hunger make us look like fools  than to pretend we have life under control and that our hunger doesn't matter. To love Christ is to suffer the full unanesthetized pain of not being in control, not being able to "make" things go our way, not being able to make the edges of life match up. To attend Mass is to bow to mystery, not certainty."  ~Heather King  (emphasis mine)

Life is so rich. . .and so busy. . .and so hard. . . and so good. . . I am so thankful.

to ponder

"There are no ordinary moments."  

(The Peaceful Warrior)

The pain, the joy, the fear, the success, the frustration, the laughter, the longing, the misery--all are extraordinary, unrepeatable gifts, and each one changes us.  I'm thankful for the moments, and I aspire to be thankful in them as well.  And since I don't want to drag this post out by filling it with the many meanderings of my mind, I will leave it at that. 

Surprised By Joy

[*Disclaimer*  The title of this post is also the title of a book by C.S. Lewis that I have neither read nor know much about.  I just like the way it sounds.]

Exactly two years ago today I left my college town as a post-grad nomad. . .I had big dreams in my heart as I drove away from that smelly old mining town rusting along the Ohio River.  I can tell you that none of those dreams came true, and the funny thing that I never even thought I would say is, I'm so thankful they didn't.  

After eighteen years as a student who (NerdAlert) loved school, I'm still just not really sure what else to do, other than make coffee.  When they asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, I said I wanted to be a ballerina (I never took a single lesson) or an actress (I have terrible stage fright, and though I find theater fun, I never found it very fulfilling) or the president (but only so I could outlaw abortion and then hang out in the White House).  

My concept of reality wasn't very realistic.  Still isn't, actually.  If you had told me then that I would be where I am today, though. . .I don't know what I would have done, but I'm glad you didn't.  It's been a struggle to get here, but I've enjoyed watching the mystery unfold.  I can't say that I wouldn't like to change a few things, but without those particular causes for suffering, I wouldn't have also found a particular cause for joy.

Reality has a way of checking itself, and it seems to do this in waves for me.  Often when I find my brain about to explode from the pressure of it all, I am surprised by this unique joy (a happiness I really never thought I could feel), and all the overwhelming thoughts weighing me down lose their heaviness.  They take on color and fire and become like rainbow confetti.  Then I welcome the explosion, because that means it's time to party.

Coffee for the Soul

(some rambling reflections on The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas à Kempis)

It was just a love-tap, but the kind with enough force to knock down a crooked tree.  My complacency shivers in the aftershock as all that was certain sits in a crumbled mess at my feet.  I see words written on my heart taken for the letter by me, incarnate in Him.  Then the rubble speaks an immeasurable truth to remind me:  "He must increase; I must decrease." 

There's Chicken Soup for the Soul, which inspires and warms the soul, but then there's coffee for the soul.  That's what The Imitation is.  It sparks the soul awake, kicks it into gear, gives a taste of that restlessness "until I rest in You." (Augustine)  And so continues this business of trying to "Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair." (Chesterton)

I aspire to love.

Then come constant reminders that love isn't easy.  It hurts.  It requires giving giving giving of self, which gets really hard, especially when we forget it's for God. But even slaving over everyday work isn't necessary as long as the work is done with love.  As Mother Teresa said, "To work without love is slavery."

I aspire to that kind of freedom.

Speaking of freedom, we are in the midst of a fortnight praying for just that--religious liberty, both in the courts and in our hearts.  The Archbishop of Philadelphia says it well:  

Politics and the courts are important.  But our religious freedom ultimately depends on the vividness of our own Christian faith--in other words, how deeply we believe it, and how honestly we live it.  . . .  The worst enemies of religious freedom aren't 'out there' among the legion of critics who hate Christ or the Gospel or the Church, or all three.  The worst enemies are in here, with us--all of us, clergy, religious, and lay--when we live our faith with tepidness, routine, and hypocrisy.

Oops. . .

Ah, sweet, sweet Mercy!  What Love, that took my sins as thorns in the head, forgave me, and loves me still!  He whispers to me in the pages of this book, in the people around me, that it's time for me to wake up, smell the coffee, and start living life fully for Him, with Him, in Him--He who is Love.

I aspire.

Oh My Love, Won't You Sing Along?

I was in a coffee shop when I first saw his face--on a free music download card.  He looked like he was laughing to himself, which is always a good sign in my opinion.  I picked up the card with his name and the title of the song--Greg Laswell, "How the Day Sounds"--and ever since then, we've been friends.  He doesn't know that, except that I told him both times I actually met him.  But he's always had a knack for singing the music of my soul.  Melancholic and poetic, songs that rise like the tide and spin and twist and come back down.  

Friday night I went to his concert and stood front and center as he played.  Afterwards, I shook his hand, had him sign the free download card I picked up over three years ago, and chatted with him.  It didn't feel like he was an idol, but a human being, an artist like me, someone who strives to turn the pain into something beautiful, and then shares it so that others can appreciate it and know that they are not alone.  It reminds me once again that this whole human experience connects us so that no man is an island--when one of us knows pain, truth, or beauty, we all share it in communion with one another, and so we share it with Christ.

I love how quirky this video is.  And. . .is that Elijah Wood?

What Dreams May Come

As a dreaming little girl, I saw Someday as a picture perfect scene that would magically unfold when I grew up:  all my hopes and dreams would come true for all of happily ever after amen.  It was a Disney princess-contrived fairy tale, I'm sure, worsened only by the sappy chick flicks I ate up in my teens.  It's a lesson we all learn some way or another that the road to Someday isn't a red carpet lined with roses; it's the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering.  The way to glory is the way of the Cross.

As I sat in church yesterday, thinking about my childish dream that life would painlessly (or at least more easily) unfold, I realized that if it had, I never would have come to experience the love of Christ the way that I have.  Ever since the first day I realized that Someday wasn't coming anytime soon, I found myself desperately searching for answers, for courage, for strength.  In my suffering, I heard the cry of Christ from the cross, "I thirst."  And I found that He just wants to love and be loved, the same as me.    

He brought me through one dark period of my life, but once again I find myself wandering in a dim uncertainty (though this is an altogether different kind of pain).  Life seems to be getting the better of me these days, but I've been working hard to make some changes.  Yesterday, just when I felt like I was completely lost and none of my work was paying off, He showed me in an unmistakable way through the Eucharist--a glimpse into Someday, which I now recognize to be Heaven itself--that He has not forgotten His promise to make me all new, to transform me by grace.

So today I picked up the cross and whined and complained the whole way because I'm tired and people are rude and why can't I just get out of here already?  I kept asking for grace--in the form of some comfort that it is all working out--but as Flannery O'Connor said, "All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful."

I heard this prayer today--

A Confederate Soldier's Prayer

I asked God for strength, that I may achieve;

I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health, that I might do greater things;

I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.

I asked for riches, that I might be happy;

I was given poverty, that I might be wise.

I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men;

I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life;

I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I hoped for.

Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am among all men most richly blessed.
(Author Unknown, but God bless him!)

--and now I am certain that true, transforming grace is not magic, nor fairy dust that will make us fly so we never have to face grown up problems.  It is Blood out-poured, a Life given freely--not painlessly--for us so that while we walk along the Way, we don't have to walk alone.

Grace You Can Taste

Called to be saints but it's like trying to run in a dream--

immobile, then sliding, slipping, tripping into

 icy streams--a gasp for brief relief.  

The sun as it spills through glass chapel panes sets fire--

bread broken, wine shared and the flames grow higher.  

Fire burns, but does not consume--transforms.  

Mercy in its fury embraces sorrowing souls--

become joy and hearts glow.

Every cup is a communion--

of coffee shared in smiles through gritted teeth,

of peach wine reminiscent of days spent

falling in love with the One who made the mountains

and skies dotted with stars,

of blood poured out.

Thirst brings me to my knees and I reach

for the Cup, taste the drops on my lips

in Communion with saints--

Grace.

heaven on earth

Random Reflections from My Walk of Life

I repel technology.  It's mutual, though. I think it's great and neat and helpful, sure, but I generally prefer thinking for myself.  Often that's a dangerous endeavor, one that usually leads to nothing except more and more thinking (about things like the power of God made manifest in a thunderstorm), but that can also lead to grand adventures (like getting lost and turning up for ice cream in Decatur, Indiana).  

I'm currently searching (with gritted teeth) for a reliable yet inexpensive car as a step towards freedom.  But really, I wish that owning a car wasn't necessary for my independence.  Not that I think there's anything wrong with cars or owning them--my boyfriend loves them, and I think that's great--but I just don't like relying on cars.  I wish I could live in a place where I could walk anywhere I needed to go, but not in a crowded, smelly city.  Somewhere I could appreciate creation in all its glory.  I mean, I don't live life in the fast lane--or the slow lane or even on the bike path.  I'm blazing my own trail in the woods, walking slowly, breathing deeply, taking life for all its worth in its most obscure moments--the light of the sun shining through green branches. . .to me it's the little things that make life beautiful and so worth living.

.     .     .

It was a dozen drops of hail that caught my attention, 
Then a stillness in bated breath

Until the next flash of light and its echoing boom.

The rain began its drip at first like pockets emptying of pennies,

Then picked up speed and sound and fell like rivers into canyons.

A loud crack and I refused to let him go.

They started to chatter about the latest gadget, the newest technology,

What this and that can do,

But all was white noise next to the pouring rain.

I moved to the chair by the open window and caught the breeze as it blew in--

Gusts from all directions sweeping treetops across the sky,
Collecting clouds in dustpans.

The stick in the front yard--the pitiful replacement for the dear pin oak struck by lightning twice--

Stretches and bends with the wind, powerless in the force. 

The chatter about apps is lost in the storm outside my window,

Lost in the depths of me.

The rain pools in puddles like ripples in the soul,

Waves tossing and tides pulling the heart

Until I am drowning in awe and wonder.

What Hand painted this scene, 

Poked holes in the sky and rained down tears of sorrow and of mercy

On the world? 

The world outside alights in splendor and I am struck.

I want nothing of tablets or computers or cars--right now I am alive.

A Happy Ending

Standing on the edge of the water under the stars in front of the lake house for the last time, I am transported.  Time in its memorial waves collide and I am at once in the moment and in the past nights sitting on or by this water under these stars.  I hear as if an echo the laughter, the singing, the silence, my wishes on the stars that have fallen, my dreams and prayers to the One who hung the stars in place.

"Trust in Me," I hear the breath of Beauty on the breeze whisper in my ear, "and I will grant you the desires of your heart." 

Twenty five years of learning how to trust collide in this one moment when he puts his arms around me, presses his lips to my ear, wipes away my tears with his hands.  All I ever wanted was to share this beauty with a man who cared, and here, in the last possible moment--in God's perfect timing--I am.

The bitterness of goodbye mixes with the sweetness of a dream come true.  I hold the moment in my heart, my thanks inexpressible except in the mystery of the Eucharist, the thanksgiving.  I know that in the morning I must celebrate the Mass and give this gift back to God wrapped in gratitude.  And my heart aches with the knowledge that in the morning, this will all be over.

To close my eyes, to sleep, to wake and find it as all that and no more than it is--a dream.

I nearly choke on my tears, but he holds me closer and I look at this man beside me.  When I wake, this moment with the stars and the water in the place where my old soul found peace for so many summers will fade away, but this man will not.  My soul sighs and bitter sorrow becomes sweet joy.

My ending for this place, for this chapter of my life, is happy and more perfect than I could have ever imagined, but exactly as He planned all along:  "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

Fairy Dust

My mom arrived back at the cottage from the store and hastily set down her shopping bags on the table.  She spoke quietly to me: "Jack, come with me.  You have to see this; it's beautiful."  Feeling like a little girl in on a great secret, I followed my mom into the hushed darkness of the night.  

I was reminded of how my mom used to say goodnight to me when I was very young.  She'd tuck me in snugly and in the glow of the nightlight, she'd sprinkle fairy dust over me.  Really she just waved her hands over me and made whooshing sounds, but she let me pick the color of the fairy dust, and I imagined it falling all over me and covering me with sweet dreams.  

Now I was a teenager and my mom's magic had disappeared--or maybe I'd simply stopped believing. But that night she woke that little girl inside of me and I couldn't help feeling like part of a great adventure as we drove down the lake road.  

She stopped the minivan on the old country road across from a field and switched off the lights.  "Uh, this is dangerous," I pointed out, the constant kill-joy.  "Someone will hit us!"

"Shh," she said. "Look over there."  She pointed to the field and I looked.

It was a breathtaking vision of thousands of lights glittering in the still blackness.  Fireflies dancing in the dark, twinkling little stars, sparkling fairies sprinkling their dust and singing a lullaby to the nonbeliever in me.

I believe in the magic of mothers.  Not spell-binding, wand-waving magic, but in their life-giving nature, they carry and pass on a certain kind of light that inspires awe in Beauty, hope in suffering, and love that endures forever.  They make that ultimate sacrifice and lay down their lives for their children--no greater love is there than this.

It will never be enough but it seems that all I can do is say, Thanks, Mom.  You're the reason I started adding sprinkles to my coffee because, as you always say, "Sprinkles make everything better."  I guess it was my way of taking your words and sprinkling them like fairy dust in my life so that I could find beauty in the ordinary and learn how to praise in the storms.  I love you one million Swedish fish.

grace.

The other day I fell asleep to the sounds of a raging thunderstorm and awoke the next morning to a blue sky full of glorious sunshine.  It was as if God injected my soul with hope.  In this life there will be rain, thunder and lightning, but there will also be sunshine.

Bring on the sunshine.

The Best Latte

The sun shines over Vatican walls, the snow and smoke rise and fall, but we are gone. . .It was the best latte I'd ever had, and I drank it in that holy Roman morning.  Drunken confessions forgotten, now I was drunk on Mercy.  And in the days, months, years to come, it was the Mercy that sustained me.  The memory whispered happiness in my heart--joy beaming from a forgiving face.  But I wasn't there yet.  Mercy still had work to do in me.  And I drank it in.

The memory is a manifestation in my heart of the words "His mercies are new every morning."  (Lamentations 3:23)  But Mercy takes different shapes.  Sometimes it's a reprieve from hardships, a moment of grace that allows us to catch our breath and regroup.  Sometimes it's an opportunity to try again and do things differently this time around.  Sometimes it's straight up humility that reminds us of our faults, imperfections, and weaknesses.  Always though, His Mercy presents us with hope and the comfort that He is everything we are not and, since He loves us so much, He will do what we cannot. 

As I lived and learned this "tough love" of God, I struggled through classes and work and the self-inflicted emotional stress of my life by drinking lots of coffee.  Because the coffee I was drinking couldn't compare to that Roman latte, I decided to add a little color one day by grinding up some rainbow sprinkles with my black coffee beans.  The taste was unaffected, but there was a little extra pep in my step, a spark in my soul.   

Then there was a dark, quiet coffee shop in my hometown where I went to drown in sorrow with my old friend.  We were searching for answers, for our place in this world, this fast-paced society so contrary to our own characters.  We wanted to change the world but didn't know how.  We sipped our lattes and suddenly I felt that Roman morning flood through my veins:  Mercy.  Somehow, this local coffee shop had produced the best latte I'd ever had this side of the Atlantic.  This was coffee for my soul, a spark of liquid happiness to push me forward, to give me courage and strength to take on life in all its obscurities.

I got a job with the company that owned that coffee shop, and thus began my education in the world of coffee.  I've learned that each cup of coffee is so rich with stories and enough character to hold its own, even without adding sprinkles.  Coffee is colorful, like the people who grow it, the people who harvest it, the people who process it, the people who roast it, the people who brew it, the people who drink it.  Every cup is a communion.

Periwinkle Clouds and Coffee Grounds

The glorious sunshine of the day nearly blinded me, and the mighty wind nearly took my breath away as I was swept in to work.  My afternoon behind the coffee bar was slightly darker than the day, a mad stormy rush to create complicated caffeinated concoctions for waiting customers.  Brewing, pouring, (spilling) serving, cleaning up in time to do it all over again.  I barely had time to catch a breath and all I wanted was a piece of chocolate.

Finally there was a pause in the madness and as I took a moment to grind coffee for the next pot, I glanced up toward heaven somewhat exasperatedly praying, "Dear God". . .and there I saw several soft, perfectly periwinkle clouds drift lazily by the big windows, a delightful contrast against the soft blue sky:  grace.  Grace filled me and my soul sighed with relief at the reminder that I am so very, very small, that there is something more, something--Someone bigger than me, bigger than coffee and my Lent-induced cravings for sweets and chocolates and everything else that would violate my strict "diet for Jesus."  There is beauty beyond, in and around us, blowing in on a gust of wind, drifting by in a periwinkle cloud, beaming in a big smile from a stranger.

It's the little things.  There are graces to be had in every moment of every day.  Even when days blend together and there seems to be no end to the constant madness, there is grace to be had.  Some days I know I have no desire to find it.  I dream all day of a big fat rock I could crawl under and hide from the world.  And then I see a mother turn the hose from the flower garden and aim it at her daughter who squeals in surprised delight at the relief from the uncharacteristically hot March sun.  And I see an elderly couple walking hand in hand down the street, each holding the other up.  Beauty.

And I may not be the happiest person in the world when I roll into work before the sun has even begun to rub its eyes, but I see a sliver of the moon aglow in the morning mist, the rest covered in shadow, and I know that all around me is Something, Someone bigger.  There is a force greater than any in the world, a force that created the world and bound it together so that when the earth shakes and the oceans roar and countries are devastated and lives are lost, this force reveals itself in efforts of relief and comfort:  Love.

There is no love without suffering, but the Good News is that, as Sheldon Vanauken wrote in A Severe Mercy, "Love is the final reality."  So when it seems that the world is crashing down around us, or that life is sucking us down into a black hole of monotony, we needn't lose our Hope that Love will have the final Word, that everything might not be the way it once was, but it will be a New Creation:  "Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth. . .And he who sat upon the throne said, 'Behold, I make all things new.'" Revelations 21:1, 5

Sunshine Ambrosia

Days pass by in a blur of dulled routine.  The question of my heart haunts me and courses through my veins as I pour coffee and steam milk and clean up spilled sugar:  what will I do with this one wild and precious life?

There are so many things I want to do and I don't know where to start so I keep pouring coffee.  I feel the pressure on me, the weight of the world pressing down until all I see is it crashing around me because I wasn't strong enough to save it.  I am brought to tears by the unkindness and ungratefulness, the swords that pierce the Heart that loves me.  It is an ugly place, this world around us.  I want to save it, but I can't.  I am empty--nothing.  I turn to God pour myself out in tears, the blood of the soul.  He says, "Trust me."  I remember how He taught me to trust before when I made a mess and broke my heart.  He washed me in His Mercy and filled me with His love.  When I was nothing, He was everything.  I was empty and He filled me with joy and peace.

From behind the espresso machine, I lift my eyes up and my heart soars with them and I tell Him, "Okay.  You've got this. I surrender my worry to You."  Peace floods my soul.  Time to start living again.

I look around at the coffee bins behind me.  I am bored with the selection--it's been awhile since we received any new varieties.  At the suggestion of my co-worker (she receives full credit for the inspiration), I pull a shot of espresso with one of our older coffees (appropriately called La Divina Providencia--Divine Providence), add honey, steamed milk, and, of course, rainbow sprinkles.  There it is--sunshine in a cup, liquid gold, joy coursing through my veins and I sip on sunshine and sprinkles until I am drunk on coffee and mercy.

My eyes are opened to the beauty around me and I am thankful for the riches of the day, for the blessings in my cup.  This is the Promised Land flowing with milk and honey, this simple life.

Living the Dream

After a long week of fighting frost on black, icy mornings to go serve coffee to cold (and sometimes cranky) customers, I had planned to stay in bed until at least early afternoon today--my first day off in the New Year.  Had it been cloudy and snowy, I would have put that plan into action, but it was the bluest January sky I ever remember seeing peeking in at me as I stretched awake that foiled any and all plans to be lazy.  Too many winters wrought with seasonal depression and unbearable restlessness have taught me--if nothing else--to take full advantage of nature's little surprises, like this glorious January sunshine.

So this morning as I drank my French-pressed, whiskey-barrel-aged Brazilian coffee out of the coffee-loving mug my dear cousin gave to me for Christmas, I knew it was time to give life to this blog that I've been thinking about since last year's pain began to transform into joy and hope.  Yesterday the sun was shining, not quite as brightly as this, but I felt the joy bubbling within me until it began to overflow and my mother accused me of doing drugs and my dad asked if I'd been drinking.  I laughed and laughed and silently wondered why I'm 24 and still living at home.  Then I remembered that I chose this life for myself.  Out of fear, I chose to be a college grad living with my parents while I work as a barista and dream of changing the world.  Yes, I dream, and dreaming may be as far as I go, but I've got my coffee and sunshine, a family who cares about me, friends who believe in me, and a God who loves me.  I've got love, and that's really all I need.

I have no idea where I'm going this year, or what I'm doing, but I am certain that I will make mistakes along the way, and that's okay (I say this over the fearful protests of my inner perfectionist because I refuse to let her win any more battles).  As Ernest Hemingway wrote:  "In going where you have to go and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with.  But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused."  I am learning, slowly, painfully, how to really love, without fear, and not just dream about it or write about it.  It's 2012.  It's time to live the dream.