It's as if my life has been made up of a whole bunch of different compartments of sh. . .stuff I have to deal with. Like time was moving me neatly from one compartment to the next, and I dealt with each one the best I could then moved on.
Then I flew across the country, to the side I'd never been to. The grass was definitely much greener there, the trees taller, the mountains higher (obviously, since we don't exactly have any here), the people nicer, the coffee better, the food tastier, life slower.
Out of my comfort zone I stretched and reached and dreamed for things I never dared consider from my bubble. The world was bigger, brighter. The light shone differently so that things that were once in shadows were now in the light.
Sunday morning sunshine in Portland.
The best thing I brought home was not, in fact, the t-shirt with the pine tree on the front (although that is pretty fantastic) but a new perspective and a renewed mind. I am so thankful for the opportunity and the experiences I had!
Especially considering the fact that shortly after I arrived home, all of the compartments of stuff I had to deal with decided to collide.
I suppose it's just another side-effect of Adulthood, that the to-do lists only become longer and more detailed, that for every item you check off, three take its place. Or perhaps it's simply the fact that practically everything in my life has been in the process of changing since this past April when I moved out of my parents house and my dear work friends told me they were moving away, followed by my engagement in May, followed by the decision in June that I would keep my position at work but switch companies, followed by all of the changes and absurdities that go along with keeping your same job but switching companies, management, and teammates in July, followed by painful goodbyes in August, followed by a month of mourning and adjusting in September, followed by my first ever business trip in October, and now here we are, knee-deep in marriage prep and snow, just in time for the holidays.
It's been a busy year, busier than I realized. And I don't see it slowing down in the near future. But at least I have a slightly better grasp on my sanity than I did even a week ago. I'm learning to roll with the punches, to not over-think things too much, to leave work at work, to enjoy the little things about these crazy days of my entrance into Adulthood.
It's so the little things. Like my car battery dying on my day off instead of on a morning when I had to be at work at 5:45 in the morning. Like the sun sneaking its light through the crack in my curtains to form a perfectly golden exclamation point on my wall. Like the ridiculous beauty of this early onset of winter in the Ohio Valley.
Yes, I think I am just going to surrender everything and let this glorious sunlight melt the cold bitterness in my soul.
A few years ago, I first discovered the website Pray More Novenas. It was mid-September, and I saw something on Facebook advertising a group of people gathering together spiritually to pray the novena to St. Therese. The link said that it would e-mail the prayers to those participating so no one would forget to pray. Convenient, I thought, so I clicked and signed up.
"I will send down a shower of roses from the heavens," St. Therese promised.
I always wanted to believe that she meant that literally. Every year I pray the famous novena to St. Therese (my patron saint and homegirl) and hope to have a bouquet of roses appear in my room, rather than the usual pack of stinkbugs. I very rarely actually receive any physical roses in answer to my prayers, but I do receive spiritual bouquets of roses--consolations, graces, assurances that my prayers have been heard and are being answered.
I love especially praying the same novena prayers to the same saint as so many other people. Pray More Novenas has grown quite a bit in the last few years, and they pray at least one novena a month with over 100,000 people participating. That's kind of crazy awesome. I have since met the couple behind the ministry, and they are also awesome. It's truly comforting to be part of such a huge prayer group. And it's easy to remember to pray when the prayers are sent to my e-mail (which I, like I'm sure many of you, can receive on my phone).
Coming up on October 19th, we are beginning a novena to St. Jude, the patron of hopeless causes and desperate situations. As soon as I heard that this was the next novena, I knew exactly which hopeless cause I would be praying for (don't we all have a "hopeless" cause close to our hearts!) and I was so excited, feeling that the novena itself was an answer to my prayer.
Then I remembered that October 19th is the day that St. Therese's parents, Blessed Louis and Zelie Martin, were beatified 6 years ago, in the year of their 150th wedding anniversary. This fact has a ridiculous amount of significance for me and my personal intention, so I know that we're already off to a good start! (If you want to join in this awesome novena, click here!)
Since we're talking about prayer and novenas, and since October is the month of the rosary, I feel the need to share the mother of all novenas that I discovered a few years ago: it's the 54 day rosary novena. With 27 days of petition and 27 days of thanksgiving, and each day including a recitation of the rosary along with several special prayers, it is difficult to get through. I confess that in the handful of times that I have prayed it, I didn't always pray it diligently/prayerfully/perfectly, but the intention was there and I know God heard me.
How do I know God heard me?
I finished praying a 54 day rosary novena for my future husband (which I began on a random day when I felt inspired to) and finished it (conveniently) the day before the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary (October 7). A month later, the man who is now my fiance asked me out on our first date.
The novena takes dedication, but it totally works. Again, not always in the kind of way where water is turned to wine right before my very eyes, but in such a way that I know God is answering my prayers. And, every time I have prayed it, I have found myself growing closer to Our Lady, more understanding of myself and my weaknesses, and watching with awe how God works everything out in His own way.
I found the novena here and hand-copied the prayers into a journal my mom gave me (made out of an old copy of my childhood favorite, St. Therese and the Roses by Helen Walker Homan). But if you aren't as much of a nerd as I am, or if you don't have that kind of time (I did this shortly after I graduated college, when I didn't have a life), you can buy a book with the updated prayers here, at the St. Jude Shop. (Did you catch that reference? The shop where you can buy the rosary novena booklet is named after the other novena we're talking about here. If you weren't sure about joining the novena, this is your sign, so sign up here.)
So you get the idea--I like novenas. And I like sharing novenas, and praying novenas with other people. But something to keep in mind: prayer can't be forced. It shouldn't be a dull recitation of prayers written thousands of years ago. As St. Therese herself put it:
"For me, prayer is a surge of the heart; it is a simple look turned towards heaven; it is a cry of recognition and love, embracing both trial and joy."
It's just that simple.
So however you choose to pray, I pray that you are showered with spiritual graces and roses from the heavens! And if you read this, I would really appreciate it if you'd say a prayer (in whatever form you prefer) for a special intention of mine! THANKS!
The morning started out foggy, hazy, depressing. It was hard to keep the eyes open.
Then the clouds shrank to polka dots in a brilliant blue sky. It was hard to keep working.
The sun began to shine, reflecting off the changing leaves and casting its golden glow over the browning but still green grass.
I kept working, but it seemed nothing was getting accomplished.
I escaped from the madness of my day during lunch and took a seat in my car. Rolling down the windows, I turned on "Yellow Ledbetter" by Pearl Jam and turned up the volume. I heard the song live just a week ago, so my connection to it feels deeper somehow.
As the sun warmed my cheeks and the breeze cooled them off, I let the riffs from Mike McCready's guitar and the indecipherable ramblings of Eddie Vedder's soulful voice wash over me:
I said, "I don't, I don't know whether I was the boxer or the bag."
I honestly don't know these days, whether I'm the boxer or the bag. The harder I fight, the more it feels like life is beating up on me. I guess that's just part of the process known as "living," and particularly that phase called, "being an adult."
Anyway, I know this music, and I know the beauty of the day. It's a powerful thing to experience music with the people that make it come alive, and it's a powerful thing to experience beauty with the One who gave you life. I've gotten to do both of those things this week, so that's something.
But sometimes I have nothing left to give but frustrated tears. I know deep down, in my heart and soul, that there is more to life than the failures of today. And I think I just need to pray and listen to this song with the windows down a few more times to let that truth sink in.
After a morning of making countless $1 Pumpkin Spice Lattes, you might think that I wouldn't want to spend my afternoon writing about it. HOWEVER, I drank a PSL myself and have that caffeine and sugar coursing through my veins and sparking inspiration all up in my heart and soul.
I came home and finally looked up this 20/20 story my mom has been telling me about, about baristas and the horrible things they do to people's drinks. I found it fascinating. I can relate to these bitter baristas. In fact, just yesterday I had a moment of understanding as I realized the reason we get so frustrated with customers and they get so frustrated with us is that we are not speaking the same language.
The language we speak is that of well-trained and experienced baristas. We know where these coffees come from, the altitude at which they are grown, the anatomy of a coffee plant, the names of the farmers who grow it, how the coffees are processed, what each step in the process entails, and what each step means for how that coffee will ultimately taste when we brew it, not to mention what all the variables are in the brewing process and how they affect the taste of the coffee.
The language our customers speak, on the other hand, is often (not always, but often) a twisted mess of coffee terms made popular by places from McDonald's to Starbucks to Intelligentsia. They often know only that they need something to wake them up, or that they like caramel frappes, or that they hate coffee and want a coffee drink that doesn't taste like coffee.
The biggest challenge of our jobs as baristas is to pick through and translate the layers of this language in order to discern the unique palates of our many customers so that we can find the right drink for them--all in the most fast-paced, efficient, and pleasant way possible.
In general, baristas are grossly underpaid and undervalued for these intricate skills. This only causes more bitterness and frustration as they attempt to read their customers minds, create personalized, handcrafted beverages, and navigate the crowds of zombie-like people dying for their daily caffeine fix on their way to work and school--all before 8 am.
In the 20/20 interview, the baristas spoke of decaffeinating rude people's coffee, or adding extra charges to their drinks. I understand the desire to do these things--it's extremely tempting sometimes! As anyone who has ever worked in customer service will tell you, people can be downright nasty. It can be very disheartening, especially for those of us with the determined Anne Frank-attitude to see the good in humanity.
Thankfully, there are plenty of really wonderful people we encounter every day too! These wonderful souls of grace who very clearly recognize us not as machines but as humans like themselves, are often what get us through the seemingly never-ending days.
I actually started writing a coffee shop musical back in college, based on my experiences. It was a sad little story line, but this video beautifully portrays (*minus the bit of vulgarity*) the plight of the modern barista, set to a familiar musical:
What stuck out to me most was their question "When will I be redeemed?"
Well, here's what I've learned: they have already been redeemed. We all have. It's a matter of accepting the sacrifice that paid our way out of this "hell" we're living.
We can't always change our situation (especially in this economy) and land our dream jobs right out of college (or even four years out of college), and in the meantime, we have to pay rent somehow. We can't change how people act towards us, but we can change how we act toward them. Instead of being the pretentious coffee know-it-alls we are stereotyped to be, we can adopt a servant's heart.
We can serve coffee with genuine joy and love. We can be kind even to the rudest customers (you never know what horrible experiences someone might be going through!). We can swallow our own opinions of what makes a good coffee and instead maintain the attitude that everyone has different tastes.
I have worked in coffee for 6 years, which is 4 more than I ever anticipated (trust me, I never anticipated being in management, but here I am). As a whole, I have loved my experiences. I love the people that I've met, the skills and knowledge that I've gained, the free coffee I've been allowed to drink, and even the work itself. It's fun! Some days I look around in gratitude and shake my head in wonder thinking, "They actually pay me to do this!"
Other days though, I shake my head thinking, "There is not enough money in the world. . ." I find myself struggling through the daily grind to be happy and nice to people when I just want to sit in a corner and be angry and frustrated. I get so tired (the kind of tired that is beyond caffeine's reach) of being outgoing (I'm an extreme introvert) on a daily basis and being up for hours before the sun. It's these days that make me ask the question: what am I even doing here?
What I have come to understand through it all, is that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. In all my vain attempts to get out, I still sought God's will for my life. My ultimate goal, after all, is not a successful career, but holiness. God gave me glimpses of what may lay ahead, and with those glimpses, reminders that as much as I want to be, I am not ready for the next step.
Even though I have days where I curse the ground I work on (by the way, we actually call the ground we work on the IBG, because we believe our bar was built on an Indian burial ground), and want to cry at the sad state of humanity, and then I spill brown mocha powder all over my black pants, I believe it is all part of the process. It is part of growing up, yes, but most importantly, a part of being humbled, of dying to myself.
If we are to be redeemed, we must first die to ourselves, so that we may rise again with Christ:
And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it. [Luke 9: 23-24)
The particular slow and painful death God has chosen for me just happens to be death by mocha.
I still fail and fall frequently, but I am reminded over and over again of His redeeming love, mercy, and faithfulness. I encourage you, wherever you are, to accept your form of "death" as the grace to participate in the fullness of your redemption. It's all we can do, really.
I admit that I dreaded when you came and sat behind me in the middle of the opening prayer. I was exhausted after a long day in customer service, and I picked that isolated corner at the front of the church for a reason: I thought it would be peaceful.
Instead, you sat behind me and crunched loudly on your church-time snack. You wiped your sticky fingers on the pew behind me. I felt a slight tug on my hair and heard your mom say, "Stop touching her hair." I smiled. But then she kept saying it, and I started to get annoyed and wondered if I was going to find boogers in there later.
I kept seeing you out of the corners of my eyes and I learned that 1) your name is Marcus and 2) no matter how many times your parents told you to stand still or sit down, you refused.
I lost track of the second reading and the Gospel as I planned in my head how me and my future husband will teach our future kids to sit quietly in church and not wipe boogers in people's hair.
Then I heard the paper glide back and forth, back and forth across the back of the pew. I heard you making weird noises with your tongue, and talking about wanting to leave. I was sad that you didn't understand the beauty of what was going on in front of you.
And as the second part of Mass went on and your mom was still "Shhsh"ing you and telling you repeatedly to sit down, I learned the lesson you were there to teach me: I am you.
I don't understand the beauty of what is going on in front of me.
In my spiritual life, in my relationship with God, I constantly find myself talking and talking and talking--telling Him what I want, that I am tired, stressed, overwhelmed, happy, uncertain--and all the while He's telling me "Shhh. . ." Because He just wants to shower His love on me.
I wander away, back and forth, back and forth, to where I get lost in the darkness until God grabs my hand with grace and pulls me back to the light.
I do the same stupid things over and over and He has to keep gently reminding me not to do them. I annoy the people around me who are striving to be holy by pointing out the ugly that I see rather than the beautiful.
As much as I like to think I understand the beauty of the Mystery of God, I know nothing.
We’re getting married. In
April. It’s so close, yet so far
away.
When I expressed my frustration that we can’t start our lives
together today, he said, "I
know. If I could speed up time. . .” He trailed off, I waited curiously, and he
finished, “Well, I wouldn't. But if I
could. . .no, I still wouldn't.” And he
laughed. And it was the most romantic
thing ever.
Everything inside me melted and I was sure of one thing: #keeper.
This is real love.
This is real. Realistic.
The beauty of life is in the present moment. It’s in the anticipation of things to come as
much as it is in the good things themselves.
It’s in the pain, the joy, the work, the play that we experience every
day of our lives.
Real love is lost in the translation of our culture. It’s lost in the lies that make us forget why
we married the person we did, to the point that we are so focused on the
struggles of a marriage and not on its fruits.
Real love is lost in the lies that make women believe they don’t have value
unless they have a man to admire and love them.
Real love is lost in the lies that make men find satisfaction in their lusts,
thus demeaning women by objectifying them for their parts.
Real love is lost in the lie that sex can be had
whenever with whoever as long as it’s “safe.”
The truth is that real love isn't “safe.” Real love is death on a cross.
Real love isn't all about romantic getaways to Paris. It’s about dirty diapers, and car problems,
and money struggles, and doing what you’d rather not do because it will benefit someone else.
Real love is even lost in the lie spread by abstinence programs
that “true love waits” for sex. Sure
true love refrains from having sex before marriage, but it’s not waiting until it can express itself—it’s
expressing itself now.
“If I could speed up time. . .I wouldn't.”
This is not true love “waiting;” it’s true love living.
This is not saying “no” to sex; it’s saying “yes” to sex as it is
meant to be—a life-giving communion,
a free, total, faithful, and fruitful gift (#TOB), an unbreakable covenant between two souls
and God proclaimed in vows made to the world.
Sex as a life-giving communion is meant to be a taste of heaven, a
glimpse into the ecstatic glory of our coming communion with God.
We are called to chastity—single people and couples
(dating/engaged/married) alike. As Arleen Spenceley writes:
We fulfill this call by experiencing the
fullness of pain, of joy, of loneliness, of communion in love. We are called to come to Jesus, to know Him
so that we "may have life and have it to the full" (John 10:10).
I could go on about this forever. In fact, I will, but probably not here, unless
you want to comment and dialogue with me. J Or
if you want to go deeper into why I (and the rest of the Catholic Church)
believe what I believe, I highly recommend Good
News About Sex and Marriage by Christopher West.
Wine shared in the Austrian alps, beer shared on a sunny hilltop overlooking a postcard village, coffee shared between morning rushes of customers. Every cup is a communion. Some communions are fuller than others, but all exist in that existential sip and the sharing it with the person next to you.
Every meal is a communion.
We sit at table, sharing pancakes made in a drunken stupor at 2 am, a steaming bowl of paella whipped up on a Friday afternoon, a plate of whatever-they-gave-me at a soup kitchen, a meal shared between two long-lost friends. It's a communion.
There are moments in time of such communion--of Bollywood dancing outside the restaurant after cheeseburgers, of holding hands in the moonlight after eating schnitzel, of bittersweet goodbyes that leave you grieving the end of an era but so full of gratitude for having lived it with such beautiful people.
People come and go in our lives. Some you forget you ever knew, but some stick with you. Some throw you under buses and stab you in the back no matter how much you try to love them. Then there are those who leave you staring in wonder at the faces and smiles around you unsure how you ever deserved the privilege of sharing anything with them, let alone days, weeks, months, and years at a place that felt more like home than home did.
To the ones that hurt you, you can only find a way to forgive them, otherwise the hurt will wound you eternally. You will remain with a hole in your heart that won't be filled no matter how many communions you share. Because as the priest says before THE Communion,
"Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chalice of my Blood, the Blood of the new and eternal covenant, which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in memory of me."
Do this. Drink this blood so that your sins may be forgiven. Pour out your own blood, empty yourself of your self completely, empty your cup, let go of your ego and your silly pride, and forgive those who hurt you. It will hurt, but we must persevere up that hill and look at them with arms opened wide to receive them, whether or not they are sorry.
To the ones that loved you back, saying goodbye is hard, because you know that even if you keep in touch, things will be different. Still, I hold on to the hope that these moments that prick my heart with the pain of beauty--the perfect mix between sadness and joyful gratitude--are glimpses of heaven, although in heaven, there will be no thought of goodbye. There will only be communion.
Interviews, small talk, phone calls, holding others accountable/confrontation--these are the things that make up an introvert's living hell, and they are all things that I am required to do more and more often in this phase of life called adulthood.
Working in customer service is difficult for an introvert like me. I'd much rather be holed up in a corner reading a book. Instead, I am constantly surrounded by people. For 8 hours a day, I am constantly on and at the ready to answer life's most difficult questions such as, "Where is the bathroom?" and "Can you make that nonfat?"
Now, I've always carried this cross, a social handicap of sorts that prevents a speedy connection between my brain and my mouth. The words I really want to say don't come out when I want them to. Instead, they stew and brew inside of me for hours, days, weeks, years until suddenly they burst out through my pen (or through my fingers on the keyboard). My pen has a quick wit; my tongue. . . not so much.
I've often prayed for the courage or the words or whatever it is that would relieve me of this cross, but I recently realized that what I really wanted was a sort of miraculous personality change. And then I realized that such a miracle, while totally possible for God, would be entirely against His will. He made me the way I am for a reason, and He loves me for me. He doesn't love who I think He wants me to be.
Nothing that we do or don't do can make Him love us any less. His love is unwavering.
So then what? I'm stuck an awkward introvert forever? Of course not.
For one thing, I have taken Elizabeth Bennet's words to Mr. Darcy (about his inability to converse easily with strangers) to heart: "Perhaps you should take your aunt's advice and practice." I do practice every day in customer service. And though it often feels uncomfortable and awkward, it has become easier, more natural. I would still rather be holed up in a corner reading Pride and Prejudice, but that wouldn't be worth much to anyone. Instead, I offer my weakness, my cross, to God and I let His power be manifested in it.
"'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'" I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities; for when I am weak, then I am strong." ~2 Corinthians 12:9-10
I fall constantly, but that causes me to constantly rely on God for His grace, strength, and mercy. I am constantly forced to forget myself (lest I wither away in the misery and despair of over thinkingeverything) and turn my mind to Him. I think it is in this way that His will is done best: when we offer ourselves as empty vessels, He fills us with His love, and that love overflows to other people until we're empty again, and He fills us again, and on and on the circle of love and His magnificence goes.
"I can sanctify you in an instant. But I love your long and patient work; it keeps you humble. Acquire loving humility--it will exalt you. Discouragement never elevates anyone. Keep going. Don't stop. I kept going on the road to Calvary and in spite of such agony. I got there. Look at Me and you will find new courage. And honor Me by calling Me to help you." ~He and I
It can get a little wearisome--I get tired of confessing the same sins over and over. But when I look back at all the plans I had for myself, and how practically all of them failed and fell to the wayside, and I see that in some ways I am exactly where I never wanted to be, and in some ways exactly where I hoped to be, I know that I know nothing. I can put forth effort and work toward my goals, but He will only lead me there when I am good and ready. In the meantime, I will continue to seek Him, and He will continue to fill me and mold my heart to better match His. It won't be easy, and it's going to hurt.
And I'm oddly okay with that, because it will totally be worth it. Because His grace is enough.
We had both been looking for this: a break from the mundane and drama-filled ball of stress we call life. So two old friends embarked on a weekend encounter hoping to find refreshment for our thirsty souls.
The Spirit moved within us and we experienced God, were reminded of His Presence in our everyday lives, were filled with renewed vigor to live our lives for Him. We reunited with old friends and shared two day of peace. It was all we were given, and we soaked in every last drop.
Then came Monday.
We faced it stretching and yawning, renewed and prepared to face anything. It was a good thing too, because I walked into a storm.
My professional life exploded (in a good, but rather challenging way), and with it came the reality of planning the simplest, lowest-key wedding possible while trying to avoid any and all things that have to do with the words: Pinterest, bridal showers, monograms, and wedding registries.
The pressure keeps mounting and in all the chaos and noise I find that I'm not praying. And when I try, I find that I can't.
How can my Lord feel so near one day, then so far the next? Because love is not about feeling. Love is a choice.
It's the choice to wake up every day and dance in the rain and laugh with the thunder, even though I'd rather stay curled up in bed eating brownies and watching Disney movies.
It's the choice to be grateful when I'd rather be begrudging.
It's the choice to keep moving even as the tears flow freely.
And I seem to be caught perpetually in this infinite in-between: dragged down by stress and fear, but wanting to keep walking on toward the light. We are pilgrim souls, weak and imperfect, but redeemed.
I am Peter walking on water, and as soon as I look down at my own feet, I begin to sink. My feet may fail, but Christ will not. If only I could keep my eyes, my trust, my hope, my reason for being on Christ. . .
And that's become my prayer. No words are needed, just a glance toward heaven and I know:
For a little while in college, I had a strong desire to move to California. I had a lot of friends from the southern part of the Sunshine State who told me of their magical land where it is sunny and in the mid-60's year round. Being from Ohio, I'd grown up hearing "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes." I had waited twenty-something years and still didn't like the weather. One miserable winter day, I told my mom about my California dream.
Her response: "People who live without seasons don't live in reality." I love my mother, but she is a murderer of dreams. (Or resurrect-er of Truth, as she prefers it.)
In any case, per the norm, she was right in a way. Obviously people who live in California and other parts of the world that have perpetually glorious weather face reality in their own ways, but it's different for those of us who experience all the seasons.
Not only do we face all four seasons, but sometimes we face them all in one week. It could be 80 degrees and muggy in the morning and 50-something and wet by mid afternoon. It could be 75 and sunny one day, and snowing the next. There are tornadoes and floods and blizzards and ice storms and weeks of seemingly endless rain. Yes, it's miserably unpredictable. Yes, the pollen might kill you. Yes, the humidity will negate any and all products you have used in your hair. But this is reality.
November snow.
The reality is that life happens, just like weather happens, and sometimes it's out of our control. We are weathered and worn, and no one makes it out alive. But without the storms, we wouldn't recognize the sunshine. The bitter cold winds of winter make the muggy 90 degree days feel like a welcome warm hug. We learn that tornado and flood warnings usually only mean breezy thunderstorms and big puddles. Partly cloudy means the sky will likely be a gray canvas of claustrophobic misery for the next two or three days, but when the sun finally does shine again, we will appreciate it that much more.
I've heard that in order to learn how to accept God's will for our lives, we should first learn to accept the weather. That's QUITE the challenge in the Ohio valley, but I'm learning. I'm beginning to realize that rather than be bitter toward the ever-changing climate, I should learn from it. It makes me stronger. It keeps me on my toes. It makes life interesting and spicy.
Today as I walked out to my car to go to work in the early morning darkness, I shivered for the first morning in more than a week. I gave the sky the stink-eye and said, "Really? I was really enjoying those muggy, 80 degree hugs! Are we back to this already?!" Then I sighed and shrugged, because it doesn't really matter.
Even if I can't see the sun, I know that it is still shining above the clouds. Whatever the weather, God is still Good. He is the Author of all life, and He made life to be full of seasons: growth, death, purification, and rebirth.
It's the twisted darkness that swirls around inside, the walls we've built to keep others out, the voices that tell us we aren't good enough, pretty enough, strong enough, the selfishness that keeps us from noticing our suffering neighbor, the grudges we hold, our unwillingness to forgive and try to understand, our certainty that our way is the right way.
This darkness twists around inside us until it is a great big knot of evil that causes pain and suffering for us and those around us.
Sometimes the more we try to undo our own knots, the tighter they become. The fact is, we can't do it on our own. We need grace.
The good news is that there is always help available to those who seek it. And in fact, there happens to be a special devotion to Mary, Undoer of Knots. If you or someone you know is struggling with a particular knot or a particular mess of darkness in their life, Mary, Undoer of Knots is the one you want to talk to.
Conveniently, a novena to her begins tomorrow! You can subscribe to the prayers and join thousands of others at Pray More Novenas. Or, if you aren't a novena type of person but you could use some grace, simply pray "Mary, Undoer of Knots, pray for me." And she will. You can count on that. You can always count on Our Lady.
In honor of Mary, I wanted to share these powerful words on the subject of womanhood from the character of author Catherine Marshall in the film A Man Called Peter. These words are from the 1950s so they may sound dated, but they are still relevant:
I never thought much about being a girl until two years ago when I learned from a man what a wonderful thing it is to be a woman. Until that Sunday morning, I considered myself lucky to be living in the 20th century; the century of progress and emancipation; the century when, supposedly, we women came into our own. But I’d forgotten that the emancipation of women really began with Christianity.
A very young girl received the greatest honor in history. She was chosen to be the mother of the savior of the world. And when her son grew up and began to teach his way of life, he ushered women into a new place in human relations. He accorded her a dignity she had never known before and crowned her with such glory that down through the ages she was revered, protected and loved. Men wanted to think of her as different from themselves, better, made of finer, more delicate clay. It remained for the 20th century, the century of progress, to pull her down from her throne.
She wanted equality. For 1900 years, she had not been equal. She had been superior [emphasis hers]. To stand equally with men, naturally she had to step down. Now, being equal with men, she has won all their rights and privileges; the right to get drunk, the right to swear, the right to smoke, the right to work like a man, to think like a man, to act like a man. We’ve won all this, but ought we to feel so triumphant when men no longer feel as romantic about us as they did about our grandmothers; when we’ve lost something sweet and mysterious; something as hard to describe as the haunting, wistful fragrance of violets?Of course, these aren’t my original thoughts. They are the thoughts I heard that Sunday morning. But somehow, some thoughts of my own were born and the conclusion reached that somewhere along the line, we women got off the track.
Poets have become immortal by remembering on paper a girl’s smile. But I’ve never read a poem rhapsodizing over a girl’s giggles at a smutty joke or I’ve never heard a man brag that his sweet heart or his wife could drink just as much as he and become just as intoxicated. I’ve never heard a man say that a girl’s mouth was prettier with a cigarette hanging out of it or that her hair smelled divinely of stale tobacco.
Yes, we Catholics have a whole month devoted to Mary. Not devoted to worshiping her, but devoted to seeking her intercession and learning how to be more like her. We entrust ourselves to her care. Why? Many reasons, but to put it simply: because God entrusted Himself to her. This woman was pure and sinless, a humble Jewish woman who trusted God with her whole life, body and soul. She carried the Son of God inside herself, gave birth to Him, raised Him. Then she felt a sword pierce her immaculate heart as she watched her perfect, sinless boy suffer under the crushing weight of our sins. While He was on the cross, He offered her to us: "Behold, your mother." (John 19:27) He gives her to his beloved disciple (HINT: that's YOU). We would be fools not to accept her motherly love and guidance. After all, if we want to be like Jesus, shouldn't we entrust ourselves to the same motherly love and guidance He had while on earth? I mean, I think so.
If you aren't convinced (okay, even if you are), check out Father Michael Gaitley, MIC's 33 Days to Morning Glory: A Do-It-Yourself Retreat in Preparation for Marian Consecration. The book contains thoughts and reflections of Mary by Saints Louis de Montfort, John Paul II, and Maximilian Kolbe as well as Blessed Mother Teresa. Insightful and inspiring, it's a great explanation of how Mary helps us grow closer to her Son.
If you're looking for a shorter, simpler way to grow closer to Mary, try the 31 Days of Mary. I don't remember how or when or where, but at some point while I was at school, I stumbled on this gem of a devotion for the month of Mary. For each day of the month of May, there is a virtue of Mary and a little blurb for reflection. It's a simple way to meditate on Mary each day during the month we devote to her. I've searched online and can't find the source of this simple prayer, so, hoping that I'm not infringing on anyone's rights, I typed it up, made a few adjustments, and posted it on this blog in the right hand column under "Pages."
When I was reminded a few weeks ago that Lent was coming up, I groaned dismally. I believed that trudging through this insufferable and eternal winter was quite enough penance for one year, thank you. The constant frigid temperatures and never-ending snowfall have made this winter bitter.
Lent and those 40 days of hearing that awful song "Ashes" sung at church simply didn't appeal to me. And the thought of offering up any sort of sacrifice for another 40 days was absurd. Haven't we all given enough? Hasn't winter sucked us dry?
It seems everyone has been having a tough time of it, having emotional and mental meltdowns in the face of this interminable deep freeze. I have felt the crushing weight of the weather while struggling with a spiritual dryness and trying to make some real changes in my life, but change isn't happening fast enough for me.
I've come to realize though, after several of my own meltdowns and encouragement from the loving support I am so thankful to have, that I am doing all that I can do to make changes in my life. That, while life appears to be at a standstill, God still has more for me to learn where I am. It doesn't mean changes aren't coming, but that they need to come from within first.
I looked back at my attitude in the last few months and I saw that the bitter cold inside me was much more damaging than the cold outside. I've begun to change my attitude, to attempt to see everything as a gift, to attempt to move outside of my self and to really and truly see and love others. It's hard, but I'm trying. And I'm not foolish enough to try on my own--I'm seeking grace.
It's funny, in all these years I've been on my spiritual journey, I've never had such a strong desire to change. I think that has to do with the winter, because I am so desperately in need of springtime outside, I can feel that desire for Easter flooding my veins. Even as I go about my day at work and I am confronted with a particular problem, I pray for grace and I feel that Easter light rising within me. It doesn't last long, but it's there, I can taste it. Even though I fail five minutes later and give in to sin, I know that I'm on my way, supported by His love and mercy. I can taste the hope that Christ is coming, and that His Rising will be so very sweet.
So to all of you who may be struggling with this endlessly bitter winter, I pray that you find the love of God abiding within you, and welcome Him with joy and peace.
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.
