The Knot

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.

The Haunting, Wistful Fragrance of Violets

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.

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.

Hope for Humanity

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.

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.