Aimless Wanderings

Maybe it's just me, but I kind of thought there for a little while that life would somehow get easier or less complicated the longer I adulted.  As if the more I practiced, the easier it would get, or the longer I waited, the clearer the answers would become.

All I've learned, and especially this year, is that instead of answers, we only face more questions.  We all have our own battles that we're facing, and for the most part, we all just go around living like everything is fine. Is that because we feel we're supposed to be adults and just suck up our feelings and deal with our problems?  We hear screaming children from various corners of the store at work and we always sort of look at each other sadly and say, "That's how I feel inside."  It hurts my ears, but I admire the honesty of children, and I wish I could be that vocally honest about my own feelings sometimes.

Courtesy of my brother, from Fawnly Prints

Those brave souls who speak out about their struggles and insecurities--I admire their ability to be vulnerable, to bare their souls, to speak up so that others who are experiencing similar battles can know that they are not alone and can find comfort or perspective or fuel for their own fight.  But sometimes our battles are so deeply personal, or we are so deep in the thick of it that speaking up is not in the cards for us right now.  

So what do we do?  Keep plastering on our brave faces and plugging along like everything's fine?  

Some other alternatives are to 1) scream in the middle of the grocery store (tempting, I know) or 2) offer enough vague complaints that people have pity on us and begin to pry in well-meaning attempts to offer support, but then we remember that we actually don't want to talk about it because it's so personal and complicated that a general explanation will never do and neither will giving this person access to our deepest, darkest secrets.

Or, we can choose to continue to wander aimlessly as we strive to fight our battles with brave faces and find balance in our awkward, complicated lives.  We can learn to appreciate the present and enjoy life where we are while we wait for life where we want to be.  And we can take comfort knowing that God is with us in our wanderings.  He sees each (mis)step we take, and His hand guides us gently along the way.  

When we have a bad day--one where we're so physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted that we actually feel like this might be it, this is where we lose it completely--He gives us a new day full of new mercies.

That's right, as we finish our Head and Heart Reset yoga flow with Adriene in the early morning before work, the final twist turns our head to the window so that we see the first glimmer of morning light through the trees, the beginning of the gentle fade from black night to blue day.  And as we sit outside for morning prayer, the cool fresh air fills our lungs and the chattering of the birds soothes our souls and we are reminded that He loves us, that He is working in us even when we are filled with pain--or confusion, or disgust at our own sin, or anxiety, or depression, or anger, or questions, or all of these things and more-- that the cross must come before the glory.

When we remember that He is there with us through it all, we learn how to accept these unpleasant things as they come, even if we don't always accept them happily or patiently.  And we learn, as Rainier Marie Rilke wrote in Letters to a Young Poet, to 

". . . be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue.  Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them.  And the point is, to live everything.  Live the questions now.  Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.  Perhaps you do carry within yourself the possibility of shaping and forming as a particularly happy and pure way of living; train yourself to it--but take whatever comes with great trust. . .take it upon yourself and hate nothing. . ."

You can find Alanna's music on iTunes and Bandcamp!

As I've been learning this all the hard way in the last several weeks, I've been wandering aimlessly to the soundtrack of the lovely young poet Alanna Boudreau's album Goodbye Stranger.  Her music (especially this album and her previous album, Champion) helped me to the realization of what I've written here.  By providing a lovely sound to listen to along with intricately beautiful images and poetry, her music presents and reflects great mysteries that sweetly linger and haunt my thoughts. They leave me questioning and pondering, but in such a way that I find myself able to enjoy the uncertainty, that I'm now able to sit more comfortably with my constant questions, and to explore beauty from different perspectives.

Having realized that, I find myself here, telling you, dear reader, that you are not alone in your aimless wandering, in your questions answered with more questions, in your pain, in your fight.  We are all in this together, and the great God who loves us more than we know, has us all in His capable hands.

Lately (i.e. Winter is Dumb, but God is Good)

"The Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak." (Matthew 26:41)

But I've been wondering. . .is the spirit willing?  Lately, I think not.

Deep down, the commitment is there, but in the day to day, I'm just plain tired.

Tired of the way things are.  Tired of trying to figure out what the next step is.  Tired of trying to change things when all my efforts are met with failure.

Disappointment and frustration cloud my view of all that I should be grateful for and all the ways I can live more fully where I am.

My sins suck me down, and others around me are beginning to feel my anger and frustration since I no longer have the energy to hide it--or am I even trying anymore?

People notice, and their humbling comments bring me to my knees, and once again, Mercy intervenes.

*           *           *

"I am dead to sin and now living in Christ Jesus."

The preacher let the words sink in, then repeated them, "We must remember and live that truth:  I am dead to sin and now living in Christ Jesus."

I want to remember.  I want to live like this, to believe it in my heart, to let it pulse through my veins.

But I get in my own way.  I let the darkness of my sin, of my fear consume me--fear of my self, of who I think I should be, of who I actually am, of who I want to be, of my constant state of failure at trying to be a woman of Love.

But if I am truly dead to sin, I need not fear my weaknesses or my failings.  I will still fall, because I'm human.  But I am now living in Christ Jesus, and He will make up for all I lack, in His mercy, His grace, His goodness, His love.

*           *           *

I always have such high hopes when the New Year rolls around.  This year was no different, and even though the first week was as boring as a pile of dirt and colder and more miserable than I can really handle without turning into a monster, I still have hope.  

My reflections and ponderings of last year (and my attitude this past week) provided me with some ugly truths about myself, leading me to think that quite possibly the changes I need to make are not so much in my external circumstances, but in my soul.  I can't just keep holding on to a superficial optimism that if I endure the difficulties with a glued-on smile, that's doing God's will for my life, and everything will turn out okay.  

I need to actually open my heart and soul and life up wide to His promised Grace and Mercy and let Him do something new in me.  And I think part of opening myself up to that is letting go of my old self, the comfortable self that likes to be cozy and comfortable and watch lots of cheesy wholesome movies.  Last year I developed better habits, one being a routine of reading the Bible and praying in the morning before I go to work.  This prayer life is a good foundation, but I find myself now at a crossroads--it's time to actually live.  That means that I need to do things that scare me, but that are good for me (like doing more yoga and exercising to get into shape, like cooking healthy meals, like finding friends nearby who share my faith).

Because as I've written before, in order to love others as we love ourselves, we have to first love ourselves, to take care of ourselves, to allow ourselves to be loved by God and formed into new creations by His merciful touch.  

I want to believe with every fiber of my being that I am dead to sin and now living in Christ Jesus, and to let His Love transform me from the inside out so that with every breath I take, I am living life to the full in His Love.

I believe, Lord.  Help my unbelief!

To Believe or Not To Believe

On a cloudless autumn day, under the sky so peacefully blue, the sun shines down like rain.  The tops of the trees catch the light like fire and begin to flicker like flames in the soft breeze.

And in the midst of the warm, bright plans we make, doubt creeps in and darkness grips the soul of it all.

Sweet gray pots etched with silver words and holding baby flowers catch my eye and speak to me: Love, they say.  Joy.  Believe.  Words that remind me, words that call forth beauty, hope, peace, words that call me on to live these things in my life.

We don't need any more plants in our tiny apartment, but the words and the sweet baby orchid blossoms of white and purple beckon me.  On closer inspection, I see the pots are cracked--hence the reason they are sitting in the break room marked down for associates.   

I don't need a broken pot with another orchid in it, I tell my husband.

No, you don't, he says, but you're going to get one anyway.

He knows me well.

I find it difficult to choose only one, because I need all of these reminders!  I know that the greatest of these is Love and that in the humdrum routine of the daily grind I struggle often to be Joy, but I choose the healthiest looking plant with promising baby white blooms and it tells me Believe. 

Life goes on and continues to resist our efforts to move forward.  As darkness and doubt creep in, it would be easy to let them consume us, to crush our hope.  But there in the corner of our living room is a little broken pot that reminds us:  Believe. 

Believe.  And I know that this imperfect pot is a grace, a simple moment of beauty that God is using to show me my imperfect self and a deeper truth.

While we make our plans, we trust in God and His perfect plan.   We know that when the outcome is not what we would prefer it to be, ultimately it is what God wants, and therefore, it is perfect.  This is not always easy to grasp, but then, the cross never is.  And we know that without the cross, there would be no glory.

Without our cracks, our brokenness, our wounds, our weaknesses, our darkness, we would not need His Mercy. 

We are all imperfect, cracked and broken, but no matter how beaten and bruised we are, we always have a home with God.  He heals our wounds and uses them to make us more beautiful than we were before.  We learn to trust in Him.  And life happens and we get hurt again and again, but we continue to trust and believe in His Mercy, His Healing Love, His Goodness. 

Sometimes the wounds cut deep and take time to heal, and sometimes the darkness seems never-ending, and as we wait to feel healed, we wonder what the point is of continuing to believe, to hope.  But in the darkness and in our pain, we are closest to Him on the cross.  He holds us in His Heart so that our thirst is His thirst, and I have found that the surest way to quench this thirst for both of us is to choose to believe, to pray over and over, "I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24).

And He will.  He will absolutely help your unbelief.  And it probably won't be at all in the way you think, but He will fix your broken pot, and in the meantime, He'll give you grace, which might look like precious baby orchids.  Or something else entirely.  Or something that you can't even see.  No matter how the grace falls--like petals, like snow, like an invisible strength deep inside you--never forget that He loves you, He loves you, He loves you!

HE LOVES YOU.

P.S.  If you're looking for a more book-length encouragement on how to keep hoping in the darkest darkness, check out Daring to Hope by Katie Davis Majors.  I highly recommend it! #goodreads
 

Slowing Down

The last few weeks have been busy for me.  I attended several workshops on how to set small manageable goals and habits for developing a prolific writing life (or whatever life you want to have, really).  In the midst of that I've been meeting weekly with a group to prepare for Marian consecration on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.  And in the middle of all of that, I've had some intensely stressful things to deal with.

While I enjoyed my workshops and meetings, they caused my work schedule to be even more up and down than usual and the stress was starting to take its toll.  I was so exhausted to the point where I almost wasn't sure I was going to get through work on Monday.  I was off early that day and two glorious days off in a row followed, so I had all sorts of lists going of things I wanted to accomplish and errands I needed to run.  Of course, I also had to crank out a few hours on my fiction writing project, since that's what I vowed to do in my writing workshop.

But by the time I left work on Monday, I knew none of that was going to happen.  No, not even the writing.  If I was going to survive this week, I needed to slow down and take time for myself.

It's interesting how clear it all came to me while I was taking those workshops.  I was busy making plans and creating schedules so I could follow my dream to write a book, and life happened, as life does, forcing me to reevaluate my priorities.

Like I said in my last post, writing is a part of me, and I owe it myself to write regularly.  What I've discovered for myself though is that the writing will take different forms.  Sometimes I'll have the creative energy to put into fiction (and eventually I will finish writing a book!).  And sometimes I'll need to write in my journal or on this blog in order to slow down, to reflect, to process what's on my mind and in my heart.

So yesterday I didn't venture far from home.  I enjoyed a leisurely morning, then did some basic cleaning around the apartment, walked to the nearby church for noon mass, watched an episode of Dr. Quinn (the whole series is on Amazon Prime, fyi) while I ate lunch, did some reading and journaling, walked to the library to return a few books, and then drove up to work to pick up a few grocery items for meals for the next two days just in time to give my husband a ride home.

I still accomplished some things, but I didn't kill myself over it.  I took the time to notice the clear blue sky devoid of any clouds, to feel the heat of the sun and the cool whisper of the gentle breeze, to sit on the balcony in silence and eat an apple while watching the neighborhood unfold beneath me.

And after that slow-mo day yesterday, I feel more rested.  I had the clarity to sit and write here, and there's creativity flowing in my brain again, so, depending on how the day goes, I may work on my fiction later as well.

Part of me feels guilty that I didn't follow the schedule I made for myself, especially after just coming out of those workshops!  But I think we need to learn to forgive ourselves when we don't accomplish everything we want to.  Sometimes, especially when life throws us curve balls, we have to slow down and take care of ourselves.  Otherwise, how can we ever be expected to care for others?

During these two days of slowing down, I've lived more intentionally, more mindfully, and I've reconnected with my center, which is Jesus.  He's still holding me close; He never let me go.  And He hasn't taken the pain away, but He's transforming it, and transforming me so that I can bear it with all the love with which He bears His.

This book by Fr. Michael E. Gaitley, MIC, changed my life. Just FYI.

The Way I Am

As I sit here letting my fingers glide over the keyboard, I know that it has been too long since I've really written on here regularly.  Ingrid Michaelson is playing, and I am reminded of that time her song "The Way I Am" was an incredible grace for me.

The song was new to me, but I loved it.  I was on a retreat with the Little Flowers (my household, which is like a spiritual sisterhood) my sophomore year of college.  In a moment of prayer, little introverted me received an immense grace.  I felt for the first time really and truly unconditionally loved for me.  I felt I had lived my life up until then content to hide in the shadows of my older siblings, lost in my own little introverted head.  God whispered to me that day that I am unique, that I have my own light to shine, and I don't have to compare myself or try to live up to someone else's expectations:  I have only to be me, and God will take me the way I am.

With the words of Ingrid's quirky song in my head, I felt really and truly loved and alive.

It's funny how over the years we change, and yet we stay so much the same. 

I couldn't resist!

At a workshop I recently attended, I heard it put this way:  Change is inevitable; growth is optional.

I love that.  Change will always come with time, and often without our having any control over it--seasons, age, sickness, outward obstacles that prevent us from going where we want to go.  Growth, however, is an option.  Growth is born out of our reaction to whatever life throws our way.

Lately I've been focusing on that whole, "Bloom where you're planted" idea.  Part of that blooming means first rediscovering myself.  For too long I've played the victim of circumstance.  I can't seem to get ahead making any big changes, so I'm starting small.  These small steps are creating momentum, and I find that I'm accomplishing more, but more importantly, I'm remembering who I am.  That helps me remember to do the things I love. 

By making a priority to write, I am remembering that writing is a part of who I am.  It's how I express myself, how I best communicate with others.  I have stories in me that I need to tell, and I'm letting myself tell them now.  As I allow this part of me to bloom, as I accept my need to be this person, I am being more true to myself, and that will help me not only move forward but also live more fully where I am.

In many ways, though I've changed and grown a lot over the years, I am still that immature, romantic college sophomore who made the song from an Old Navy sweater commercial her anthem.  She's a part of me, a part of who I have become, a part of who I am becoming.  The darkness that has fallen over my life these days is similar to the darkness I experienced before that revelation, but I've placed my hope once again in God and in His particular care for me.  

In my time of need, He is reminding me how much He cares for me.  He is telling me that He won't take away all the pain, because the pain brings me closer to His own suffering heart.  He wants to hold me close to His heart, to let His blood cover me and purify me.  He takes me the way I am.  He wants more for me than I want for myself, and when I give Him full reign over my life, He teaches me how to love myself better, and in turn, love others better.    

He takes me the way I am.

He takes you the way you are.

He loves us unconditionally.  Even if we keep making mistakes and falling and failing miserably and ignoring Him completely, He is still there to pick us up.  And He wants us to do this for each other.

I aspire.

Love and Coffee

Coffee coffee coffee is my mantra. I love coffee.  I love trying new coffees, making coffee, sharing coffee.  When a co-worker/coffee friend gave me a delicious bag of beans from a recent trip, I thanked her for sharing the coffee with me, and she replied, "Of course, that's what coffee is for."

Communion.  Every cup is a communion.  It is the sharing, the community, the relationships between co-workers and customers that have grown and evolved over the years that I love the most.

Still, I don't necessarily want to be a barista forever.  And in the restlessness of wondering, the aching for more than pouring coffee and making lattes and being constantly sucked dry of all energy from being on my feet and socializing all day (which let me tell you, for this introvert, is exhausting), I find peace only in the One who made the stars and the sea and the coffee trees.

Gratitude is too shallow a word to describe the depth of joy I find at the gift of His peace, manifested in His mercy and grace, especially in the darkness that has recently visited.  In the exhaustion that cannot be cured by coffee (yeah, I said it), He picks up my weary soul and carries me through it all.

Just after the recent canonization of my beloved Saint Mother Teresa of Calcutta, I picked up a free copy from church of With Great Love, a book of reflections on Mother Teresa by Susan Conroy, who spent time working with the saint. Saint Mother Teresa and her patron, Saint Therese of Lisieux have always been close to my heart, and I aspire to follow their examples of putting great love into the every little action, no matter how simple.

In this looooong week of work full of too many too-early mornings, God, in His mercy and grace, graced me with the perfect reflection on this very subject from Susan Conroy.  It's a lesson I have heard so many times throughout my life, and a lesson I have attempted to apply to my time working in coffee over the years.  But as I recently heard, our spiritual lives are not linear.  They are not gradual uphill climbs, but rather, they are paths full of stumbling and falling and, by the grace of God, persevering toward that seemingly ever elusive holiness and perfect communion with Him.

Every cup is a communion.  Not a perfect communion, but a communion of all our broken humanity scooped up into a mug, a chalice, a hug, a smile.

"Let every action of mine be something beautiful for God," said Saint Mother Teresa.  As she wandered the streets of Calcutta, she and her sisters performed simple tasks, such as sitting with the dying so they didn't have to die alone, or providing a blanket to someone who was shivering, or giving a glass of water to someone who was thirsty.  As Conroy describes:

"It was not the work that was extraordinary, but rather, the way in which it was done.  It was the spirit of the work that made it extraordinary: the spirit of love, humility, tenderness and respect with which each human being was touched and held and cared for.  It was precisely this spirit of love and humility that made Mother Teresa a saint and made every action of hers 'something beautiful for God.'

"It is always about the love.  Love, love, love.  Mother Teresa said that this is the reason we exist--to love and serve God by loving and serving one another....

"It doesn't matter how much we give, but rather how much love we put in the giving.  [Mother Teresa] encouraged us to 'put love into everything you do, and you will be fulfilling your vocation.'

"'God is Love,' Saint John the apostle tells us.  Do everything with God.  Do everything with 'the fullness of charity' in your heart, and you will be fulfilling your duty and your destiny in a way that is most pleasing to God."

No matter what I do, even as I search for work beyond barista-ing, I can put love into each little action, into each cup of coffee I pour, into each dish I wash, into each person I meet.

Yes, coffee coffee coffee is my mantra, but what is coffee all about?  It is about the people, the communion, the love.

"It is always about the love.  Love, love, love."

 

 May we never forget.  <3  

The Fear

These days have been bored and restless.  The silhouette of the next thing is on the horizon, creeping closer.  It's not close enough yet that we can make it out, but it's coming.

The waiting leaves me restless, itching for something substantial to hold onto, wasting my summer watching Netflix because it's easier to get caught up in a silly TV show about beautiful people and their fake lives than to get caught up in my own.

Fear keeps me from opening up my heart to fully love and live right where I am.  I fear that there is something more that I should be doing.  I fear what that might be.  I fear, perhaps most of all, that it will keep us here.  I fear stepping out of the comfortable (even if the comfortable is slightly miserable).

Recently I re-read Kisses from Katie, the story of an ordinary young woman who stepped out of the comfortable to follow God's will for her life and is accomplishing truly amazing things in Uganda.  (I read it a few years ago, and wrote about my thoughts on it here.)  I am a different person than I was three years ago when I first read it, but I was no less convicted.  If anything, this time when I read it, my perspective was less sentimental and more realistic.  I saw how ordinary and imperfect Katie is, how all she accomplished was simply a result of her openness to God and letting Him work through her to reach other people.  I want to be that open, that trusting.

The funny thing is that I think I would be willing to drop everything and follow Him, but I can't for the life of me figure out where He wants me to go.  Which is why I have the sinking feeling that perhaps, at least for awhile longer, He wants me to stay right where I am.  Which scares me more than a disease-ridden Third World country.  The fear paralyzes me so that all I can do is click "Watch Next Episode" on Netflix.

Praise the Lord for the priest at Mass this past week.  He reinforced the message I received reading Katie's story by encouraging us to make Christ the center of our lives and let God interrupt our plans.  He reminded us that in our dark world, we the Christ-followers must be the light--of love, patience, peace. When he led us in song at the end of his homily, I felt the Spirit moving in me.

My heart knew the answers I was looking for:  that the restlessness comes from not being present in the moment.  Yes, maybe God wants me to go on and do great things, but how can I trust in the big things if I can't trust in the little things?

A big lesson Katie learned in Uganda faced with seemingly unending poverty, hunger, and sickness was that all she could do was help the one in front of her, and trust that God would take care of the rest until she or someone else came to help them too.  Her actions created a ripple effect that inspired many more people to reach out and help those in need in Uganda.  God is using her as a voice to cry out in the wilderness, to open the eyes of the body of Christ to the need, to call those of us who make up Christ's hands and feet to action.  All she did was help the person in front of her.

I can do that at work.  I can keep my focus on the customer in front of me and patiently serve them to the best of my ability without being overwhelmed by the long line of caffeine-hungry people behind them.  I can be positive at work and let the little annoyances go (even if in the last five minutes of a long shift I have to deal with a difficult customer who continues to test my patience and ask a lot more of me than I have the energy to give).  I can listen to people even when I have less than zero interest in what they are saying--sometimes people just need to talk.  I can bite my tongue against complaints and decisions I disagree with.  I can love one person at a time.  I can be a light.

Over the years, this blog has carried this theme, of how to love God while being a barista.  You would think that the message would have sunk in by now, but I tend to need constant reminders.

When I stepped down from management nine months ago, I experienced great relief and necessary detox from the stress of the previous two and a half years.  I rediscovered my love for both coffee and people, but eventually, when the people became too difficult to handle, I turned my focus to the coffee.  However, I found that if I wanted to pursue coffee as a career and succeed, it would have to become in some ways a god.  But I already have a God, and I love Him.  A lot.

I never imagined that I would still be here after so long, that I would still need these reminders, but here I am.  Imperfect.  Afraid.  I let the fear in, and it began to consume me, but by His grace I have been saved once again from myself.

Maybe God wants me to go out into the world and do great things, but I will never have the strength if I haven't fully abandoned myself to Him, if I don't fully trust Him in everything.  I will never be able to follow Him along great distances in the future if I can't follow Him right now.

Here I am, Lord.

All Is Grace

Happy feast of Our Lady of the Rosary!

Four years ago yesterday, I finished the 54-day rosary novena that I prayed for my future husband.  It was almost exactly a month later, and not a moment too soon, that the man who is now my husband asked me out.  

I trusted in the Lord with my heart, with my life.  It wasn't easy.  The Lord's ways are often very different than our own.  The road to follow Him is paved with blood, sweat, and tears, disappointments and failures and pain.  The journey requires trust and perseverance, but at the end of the day (and sometimes that day feels like a lifetime!), the Son always rises in glory.

Recently, the timing and circumstances were just right so that I was finally able to root out a source of significant stress and anxiety in my life.  I believe that once again, the Lord was guiding me, patiently, faithfully, along the painful path toward freedom.  I know that everything that happened leading up to that life-change was as necessary as the life-change itself.  This change is a grace that I am extraordinarily thankful for.  I don't have enough words to express my gratitude, but I feel kind of like this:

#peace

Life is a roller coaster of highs and lows, but I believe that these highs provide grace to help us persevere through the lows.  It's much easier to praise Him when all is dripping with sunshine than when all is covered in overcast gray.  I love You, Lord.  I thank You for ALL THINGS.  I believe that ALL IS GRACE.

A Glimpse of Spring

“…you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning.  Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. . .Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.  But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.  When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason. . ."*

Every year it’s the same story—the earth dies, and rises again to new life in the spring.  The soul follows the same pattern. 

To be honest, it gets old after a while.  Year after year, you’re cruising along and everything is great and then the holidays come around and they should be enjoyable but they’re just stressful and then they’re over and you think you can breathe a sigh of relief and start fresh with the new year, but the new year is full of its own challenges and changes and bitterly cold days and snowy mornings and snowy evenings and salt-covered shoes that lead to salt-covered floors and sickness here and there and then here again because your stress is so high that your immunity is shot to hell and you know spring is just around the corner, and finally it’s the first of March, and still you drive to work through four inches of snow and ice and wonder why you are risking your life for coffee, because that’s what you do for a living, you make coffee.

Then one fine day, the weathermen say it’s going to start warming up tomorrow, and your wedding present has arrived from Denmark—a coffee maker, the finest in the world, proven to produce a nearly perfect cup of coffee every time.  Suddenly you see yourself ten, twenty, thirty years from now brewing coffee with this same coffee maker and sitting across from the man who loves you even when you go off in a hangry rage at Wal-mart because the brooms aren’t where you think they should be and you didn’t eat enough for breakfast.

As you sit in the parking lot of Home Depot nomming on your filets o’fish and he watches you with skeptical eyes, willing your body to accept this food so that you don’t go into a hangry rage inside Home Depot too, you realize that it’s not as warm out as the weathermen said it would be, and you aren’t surprised because it never snowed when they said it would and always snowed when they said it wouldn’t, but you know that when the snow does melt, you’ll be better.  Because every year, it’s true.  It’s never perfect, but it’s always better in the spring (and the summer, and the fall).

Just when the weary soul can’t take much more of the constant reaching and hoping for a glimpse of spring, it comes.

It comes on a ray of sunshine from the east, down the street and to my right it shines its light on the cold pavement, causes the dumpy leftover piles of snow to bleed into the street and pool puddles of mud on the sidewalks.  The trees are bare but still, and from one nearby comes the soft chirping song of a bird.  It isn’t snowing.  The sky isn’t a depressing canvas of gray.  The muddied grass mirrors the weathered and worn soul, but it is green enough that one truth pervades--

spring is coming.

“In those days though, the spring always came finally, but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.”*

*A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway

Snow Glow

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.  

Spiritual Bouquets

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!

Death By Mocha

Happy National Coffee Day!!!

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.

But in the meantime, we'll do some of this too:

Shelby's Last Latte

The Infinite In-Between (take two)

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: 

I am Yours, and You are mine.

Seasoned

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.

The really good news?  He makes all things NEW.

May: The Month of Mary

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."

May it bring you closer to Our Lady and Our Lord!

Easter Rising

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.

Abiding

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)

Mallows

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.

Fall in Love

I am that girl.

I didn't always love fall.  In fact, I used to hate it.  It was that gray, rainy season full of muddy walks to school and wet, slimy leaves sticking to my shoes. It was brown, and it required raking, which required being outside--I used to hate being outside.  Worst of all, fall held nothing to look forward to except colder and colder mornings and cars covered in frost and ice.  So much ice.

When I was a sophomore in college, everything changed.

It wasn't because I discovered pumpkin spice lattes, or cardigans, or scarves.  And I definitely hadn't gotten excited about the impending death of everything in nature.  No, it had been a combination of graces that led me to change my mind about the season one day.

It had been a mild fall, so the day wasn't terribly chilly.  Dark clouds had begun to roll in to contrast the morning sunshine.  A great breeze picked up and it was as if the sun-kissed trees were waving me on.  I felt the Spirit moving around me and I breathed deeply, and I knew that I love fall.

That semester had followed a dark, depressing summer for me.  I was struggling to adjust back to life at school, to become more financially independent, and to make new friends (some of my best friends from my freshman year were studying in Austria for the semester).  

One Monday night, I wanted desperately to just sit in my dorm room and feel sorry for myself, but some friends invited me to go bowling with a big group of people.  At first I declined.  I'm awkward around people I don't know well, and in my emotional state, I wasn't sure I'd be able to choke up the energy.

As I sat in my room I realized that I had a choice.  I didn't have to let my depression weigh me down.  I could stay there and sink further into my depression, or I could get up and go and maybe have a good time.  Besides, if I went and it was awful, I never had to go again.  Suddenly, there was a strength inside of me (the Holy Spirit, I'm sure), determinedly pushing me to my feet.  I would not let the depression win!

I had no idea that the people I would meet that night would change me forever. It became a weekly tradition--Monday night bowling followed by either Tim Horton's or Taco Bell and/or a movie at someone's house or a random dance party in a parking lot on campus.  We would always meet in the cafeteria for lunch and dinner, taking over two long tables with our laughter and conversation, sitting for hours in that gross building because we were having such a good time.  We were an eclectic group, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I had found friends with whom I really belonged.  I'd had good friends growing up, but never one solid group with similar beliefs and interests.  These people became like a family to me.  Through them, the Lord pulled me out of my depression and showed me who I am--a loved young woman.

That fall, I learned agape.

What followed was the opening of my heart to the Lord.  I gave Him everything, and the next year was the best of my life.  It was challenging and full and colorful and I thought I fell in love so many times but it was really just once--one long plunge into the ocean of Mercy.  At times it was dark and painful and sometimes so lonely I couldn't breathe, but my tears of sorrow always became tears of thanksgiving.

The following fall I was in Austria, where I fell head over heals in love with Jesus and His Mother--I heard God better in Europe for some reason.  Maybe because I lived here:

Yeah, that definitely helped.  It helped me get through the coming year of uncertainties and separation and certainties and alienation.  More pain followed me through the year and pressed on more intensely in the fall of my senior year, and in the pain I discovered real strength--reliance on God.

Strength isn't independence.  It's dependence on God.  That's a lesson I still learn every day.  It's a lesson I finally put into practice two falls later when my heart was lonely, but I placed my trust in God and His perfect timing.  The next week a young man bought me dinner, and we fell in love.  The next fall, our love only grew stronger.

And this year I hear so many people complain about fall and how it's so cold and rainy and gross and everything dies and winter is coming and that means snow and ice and cold.

And all I have to say about that is NOT "pumpkin spice latte pumpkin spice latte pumpkin spice latte" but agape. 

Agape.  The love God has for us.  The love we have for God.  The love we have for one another.  The love. There is so much love in the club!

It's what I think about when I think about fall.  It's what I remember when I wake up at 4:30 and suddenly it's 7 am and the sun still isn't shining.  I think about evenings in the cafeteria and the smokey bowling alley with the people who changed my life forever.  I think of the place of incredible beauty, the place of terrible pain, the place of love lost and love found, the place of death turned new life.

This love is available to all of us, all the time, and we have a choice--to love or to hate, to let ourselves be loved or to let our lives weigh us down, to hide from the world or face the rain with a smile and a heart full of gratitude.

Fall may be the season when everything dies, but life always goes on and starts anew.  And through all the ups and downs, we get by with a little help from our friends.

Thank You, God, for mine.

Redeeming Love

It was a scene in Jesus of Nazareth that struck me to the core: when the sinful woman came and washed the feet of Jesus with expensive ointment and her tears.  That woman was me.  That was me on the chapel floor letting my tears fall at the foot of the cross because I am unworthy.

And yet, I am loved.

I am loved to an unimaginable degree.  Loved beyond comprehension.  Though I stumble, though I sin again and again, I am loved.  We all are.

It is a redeeming love that pursues each of us.  A knocking at our hearts to be opened.

Jesus came for the sinners, not the righteous.  To the would-be killers of the adulteress he says,"Let he who is sinless cast the first stone."

 

No stones were thrown that day.  Why?  Because no one is perfect.  We are full of weaknesses, struggles, fears.  We make mistakes and bad decisions. Therefore, Jesus came for all of us.  He died for all of us.  As he hung on the cross, in the last breaths before his death, he forgave all of us.  By his blood, we are forgiven, and redeemed, no matter how grave our sins.

I've learned that this redemption is not exactly passive on our end.  God has done all the work, yes, but it comes down to a movement of the will to believe.  Often this is the hardest part--getting over ourselves enough to be humbled to the point of of accepting that we need Him.

Sometimes we believe that we are righteous enough, that our sins are not so great that we really need him.  I really am a good person, and that's enough.  It's not enough.  Heaven isn't earned--it is desired with the whole will, with all heart and soul.  You have to really want it.

When we want it, we find ourselves confessing our sins regularly.  I find that I confess the same sins over and over, and Jesus says "Go and sin no more," and I wonder how that's possible.  I wonder if I've really even been set free.  If I were truly set free, wouldn't I be able to stop doing the same stupid things?  Why can't I make it out of the church parking lot before sinning again?

"Forgiveness is only real for those who have discovered the weakness of their friends and the sins of their enemies in their own hearts, and are willing to call each human being their sister and brother." (Henri J. M. Nouwen)

I'll be honest--I'm generally not willing to call the angry, hateful customer my brother.  I'm not willing to call the obnoxious woman in line in front of me my sister.  I'm not willing to acknowledge that I have neglected to use my turn signal before too.  I'm not willing to let other people have their bad days.  I am not willing to forgive, but I expect to be forgiven.

"To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you." (C.S. Lewis)

It all comes down to a movement of the will to believe.  And maybe the truth is that I don't want to believe.  Maybe there's a part of me resisting, because I know that to go and sin no more is going to be extremely painful--the death of my pride and my self.  Maybe I believe the fact that I am forgiven just as much as I believe the fact that I will sin again.  That is where the problem lies--when I focus too much on my own faults (or even too much on the faults of others), and weaknesses, and sins, and not nearly enough on Jesus.

His grace is enough.

He does not condemn us.  Neither should we condemn each other, or judge each other, or even criticize each other.  We need to try to understand each other, because "To understand all is to forgive all."  (Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited) 

I believe that this is key to learning how to love our neighbors as Christ loves us.  To try to understand where they are coming from, and to meet them where they are at is what we are called to do.  It's what Jesus does for us.  It requires patience, and the constant swallowing of our pride, and often we fail, but that's what confession is for--to receive that kiss from Jesus on the forehead, to hear him say, "Neither do I condemn you.  Go and sin no more."

I aspire.

And I'm finding that the best way to do all of this, is to come to know Jesus better, through the gospels, the sacraments, the liturgy, prayer.  The more I seek him, the more I find him.  He's often in the most unlikely places, but he's always there, waiting with open arms for us to come to him.

I want to believe, Lord; help my unbelief!