tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72481906482984786822024-03-14T04:29:45.023-04:00Faith and the MuseI'm a journalist and a Catholic revert (formerly involved in the occult and Protestantism) striving to become the woman God desires me to be. Future wife. Italian. Jersey girl. Musician. General lover of life. :)Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.comBlogger271125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-63009957477991819752013-11-15T00:40:00.000-05:002013-11-15T14:35:54.146-05:00"For everything, there is a season."A month ago, my Mom-Mom died.<br />
<br />
I can remember vividly sitting in News Writing 2 in 2009 during my first semester at Rowan, listening to George Clark talk about semantics in journalism.<br />
<br />
"In journalism, people die," he told us matter-of-factly, leaning backward against his desk and scanning the room. "They don't 'pass on,' they don't 'go home to be with the Lord,' and they don't 'attain a new level of being.' They die. That's all."<br />
<br />
I snickered that day. George would grow to become one of my favorite professors on campus for his blunt honesty and fierce love for his students.<br />
<br />
That same semester, Mom-Mom had yet another exacerbation of the lung disease that dogged her for ten years. I would call home and listen to the rough weariness in my mother's voice as we hoped for the best.<br />
<br />
But deep down, we also wondered how much longer sweet Mom-Mom could endure.<br />
<br />
Alone in my apartment at night, I would sit up and rail at God. Why did He let her suffer so? She didn't deserve that. It wasn't fair. Where was He? And all the while I was petrified of going on without her laughter, her wisdom, her lighthearted dismissal of my mother's temper. I didn't want her to die. More than that, <i>I </i>didn't want to die. Heaven was too idyllic for me, and hell too bleak.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I began to believe that God must not exist. It took a long time for me to recover from that period.<br />
<br />
When I did, I emerged with a new appreciation for the sacredness of this one life I've been given by God. My journalist instincts kicked in and I sat down with Mom-Mom and an audio recorder a week before her 80th birthday in 2010. Lack of oxygen had begun to rob her of precious memories, and I wanted to preserve it all, preserve <i>her</i>, untouched and exuberant.<br />
<br />
We talked about everything that day as the oxygen tank rumbled and puffed: The joyful simplicity of a childhood uncluttered by traffic and technology; her decision to give up the restaurant she ran to be more present to her children; her pride at our election of a black president; her suspicion of a society so bent on self-preservation that they attempt to play God.<br />
<br />
I haven't listened to that recording since the day I made it, waiting for a moment after her death when I would miss her laughter. I'm going to edit it down and burn it onto CDs for my family.<br />
<br />
I am not trying to bring her back to life. She neither wanted that or us to mourn too long for her. As she told us recently, she lived a long and happy life with no regrets. What more could she want?<br />
<br />
She died on Saturday, October 5th at 3:00 in the afternoon, the same time I visited her since I was a little girl. That day, I was meeting with priests and searching for a reception hall. Mom-Mom wanted me to go. A few days before, I went to see her one last time and covered her with kisses. She told me she loved me.<br />
<br />
Her ferociousness and the brightness of her spirit will burn on in my heart as long as I live, and if I can help it, they will be passed to my children.<br />
<br />
She was a phenomenal woman, simple but strong, who died at peace in hope of seeing heaven and my Pop-Pop Lou.<br />
<br />
I live in hope of being like her, and in hope of seeing her again someday.<br />
<br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-81610796421277581932013-09-15T01:08:00.001-04:002013-09-15T01:08:16.682-04:00Holy PanicThis weekend's Gospel is a mashup of what I believe are some of Jesus' most poignant parables: the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the prodigal son.<br />
<br />
Sure, they may be my favorite stories, but the truth is that they are also so familiar that they've almost gone stale. Most of us who grew up in the Church can probably tell these stories from memory. That familiarity can sap them of their power sometimes.<br />
<br />
I went to Mass at my grandmother's parish today as we were going out afterward. The homily opened my eyes to the depth of these parables in a brand new way.<br />
<br />
We already know that Jesus loves us and wants us to remain with Him. We also know that He is full of compassion for us when we do stumble or stray. But it also teaches us something else about God's heart.<br />
<br />
You know that feeling you get when you lose your keys or your wallet? You tear the house upside down, beg St. Anthony for help, and after a few minutes with no luck a cold tendril of panic creeps its way into your bones.<br />
<br />
You are anxious over the loss of the thing that is important or meaningful to you. You're not sure what will happen without it, because in some way you've begun to need that thing in your life. That's what we see in the first two stories, the lost sheep and the lost coin.<br />
<br />
The addition of the prodigal son as the closing element of the reading is the clincher here. We rejoice over our lost objects or even lost animals, but how much more do we rejoice when a <i>person </i>we love returns to us? No found coin could ever compare to the miracle of a rekindled relationship.<br />
<br />
And no anxiety over a lost coin could ever compare to the holy panic God feels for us, His precious children, when we are lost in our sin.<br />
<br />
It's hard to imagine our perfect, omniscient God experiencing something like anxiety. But He is much more than just a God. He is our Father, our Lover, and our Divine Friend. He yearns for us and seeks after our wellbeing more than any human.<br />
<br />
That knowledge on its own is a wonderful revelation. It should fill us with gratitude and peace.<br />
<br />
And it should also motivate us to action, Monsignor said.<br />
<br />
Think about it. Why is it that we're so passive when someone commits a grave sin or even leaves the Church? We avert our eyes, shuffle our feet and mutter meekly about it being between them and God. We're sad for them, but we don't want to cause any problems. We don't want to risk chasing them away.<br />
<br />
Funny how all that changes if our loved one is diagnosed with cancer. We would beg, borrow and steal so they would have enough money for chemo. Our love would prompt us to make incredible sacrifices just for the <i>chance </i>that they may recover.<br />
<br />
The truth is, those who are trapped in sin are afflicted with spiritual cancer. And doing nothing is essentially allowing them to die without a fight.<br />
<br />
How far are we willing to go for the people we love to be well again? What are we willing to risk?<br />
<br />
Holy panic, he said, would do us all so much good.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-83865233845377044252013-09-11T01:07:00.004-04:002013-09-11T01:07:35.087-04:00Die Slowly<i>I found this poem tonight while browsing Facebook. My first exposure to Pablo Neruda came during a memorable poetry course in my sophomore year of college. I liked him then, and I love this piece. It reminds me of what I'm striving toward.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
He who becomes the slave of habit,<br />who follows the same routes every day, <br />who never changes pace, <br />who does not risk and change the color of his clothes, <br />who does not speak and does not experience,<br />dies slowly.<br /><br />He or she who shuns passion,<br />who prefers black on white, <br />dotting ones "it’s" rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer, <br />that turn a yawn into a smile, <br />that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,<br />dies slowly.<br /><br />He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy, <br />who is unhappy at work, <br />who does not risk certainty for uncertainty, <br />to thus follow a dream, <br />those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives, <br />die slowly.<br /><br />He who does not travel, who does not read, <br />who does not listen to music, <br />who does not find grace in himself, <br />she who does not find grace in herself, <br />dies slowly.<br /><br />He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem, <br />who does not allow himself to be helped, <br />who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops, <br />dies slowly.<br /><br />He or she who abandon a project before starting it, who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know,<br />die slowly.<br /><br />Let's try and avoid death in small doses, <br />reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.<br /><br />Only a burning patience will lead<br />to the attainment of a splendid happiness.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-50364754962377093612013-08-12T22:15:00.001-04:002013-08-12T22:23:42.054-04:00Childlike FaithThis week, Brian and I have escaped to Charlotte, NC to spend some time together and visit with a few Phatmass friends.<br />
<br />
The Papists, as I'll call them, are a wonderfully devout couple with a young, growing family. There are four children from 8 years old to 5 months old, and it amazed me just how much I've learned so far...<br />
<br />
Naturally, I hope to raise my own children with love for God and for their fellow man, but I've never really thought about what that would look like in daily life. With Papist and his wife, I've gotten to see how one family does it.<br />
<br />
We went out together tonight, just the four of us, to drink and talk and learn from each other. The conversation turned to starting our own family, and a thick lump of fear hardened in my throat.<br />
<br />
The two of them are so open to life and to God. It humbles me, sometimes to the point of conviction, where I am brought low by my hidden selfishness and lack of trust.<br />
<br />
Part of me feels like I need to live like that. Assuming I have 25 years of fertility left, I should prepare my heart at least for the possibility of more children than I want today.<br />
<br />
As the discussion unfolded around me and I caught sight of the joy in Brian's eyes, a storm of grief brewed inside of me.<br />
<br />
<i>God, please open my heart. Please help me to want to give of myself.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We got back to their house just in time for the little ones to go to bed. As soon as we walked in, the kids screamed our names and ran for us with an accompanying shower of hugs and kisses.<br />
<br />
All of us went upstairs for prayer time.<br />
<br />
In those few minutes together, we were allowed to witness something both very intimate and so special. We got to listen to the honest prayers of the children.<br />
<br />
You have never lived until you've heard a 2-year-old pray. Brian and I were both moved to quiet tears.<br />
<br />
We let the Papists retire then, offering to read bedtime stories to the four of them. The entire day was full of wrestling and giggles, and this moment was no different. We were spent by the time they were in bed, but our hearts were full.<br />
<br />
In these simple, ordinary moments, God is continuing to stretch my heart and help me embrace His call to marriage ... He is casting out my fear with His love.<br />
<br />
I love my new little friends. But more than that, I love what He has done through their love.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-15040181305775226192013-08-04T22:29:00.005-04:002013-08-04T22:34:52.069-04:00Storing Up Treasure<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>“There was a rich man whose land produced a bountiful harvest.
He asked himself, ‘What shall I do,
for I do not have space to store my harvest?’
And he said, ‘This is what I shall do:
I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones.
There I shall store all my grain and other goods
and I shall say to myself, 'Now as for you,
you have so many good things stored up for many years,
rest, eat, drink, be merry!'” </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>But God said to him,
‘You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you;
and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?’
Thus will it be for all who store up treasure for themselves
but are not rich in what matters to God.” </i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
—Luke 12:16-21</blockquote>
<br />
There is nothing I crave or love more in this world than my sense of security.<br />
<br />
I am a creature of comfort. In this world full of uncertainty and change, I long for something to cling to, somewhere I can set down my roots and know that I am safe.<br />
<br />
So for me, there really is no place like home.<br />
<br />
After graduation two years ago, I found that adjusting to my new life and new job didn't come easily. Anxiety settled in like a smothering blanket. It was up to me to earn my living. The safety net so conveniently placed beneath me through my school years was gone. No pressure, right?<br />
<br />
It took time and some bumps and bruises, but adjustment did come in time. I found Brian, we fell in love, and I settled into the comfort of our dating relationship and the years I thought we had before taking the next step together.<br />
<br />
Then, he popped the question. In an instant, our lives changed. The watertight, perfect plans I'd so carefully laid were suddenly up in the air.<br />
<br />
Not knowing what else to do, I sat in the bagel shop the next morning and cried.<br />
<br />
Don't misunderstand. I was <i>thrilled </i>to be embarking on a lifelong journey with the man who had quickly become my best friend. But our engagement introduced a whole new set of questions and anxieties I had told myself were still years away.<br />
<br />
We spent a lot of time in prayer over the next few weeks as we considered our options. Do we wait until Brian's graduation to marry to build a stronger financial future, or marry sooner and end our long-distance relationship?<br />
<br />
I could tell he wanted to marry. He told me that while it would be difficult, we could make it work.<br />
<br />
My brain stopped at "difficult" and didn't want to hear anything else. I told him we'd be so much happier and more stable if we waited. We set a potential date for 3 years out.<br />
<br />
But we were both unhappy. It was the new unspoken elephant in the room.<br />
<br />
The truth is that I was afraid to leave home. The transition into adulthood has been less than kind to me, and the thought of leaving my job and my family to begin a new life with Brian in New York was terrifying.<br />
<br />
Fear ruled me. And it left me with a hole in my heart for something more.<br />
<br />
I was that rich man, hoarding my money and my comfort and my control-freak ways inside the little barn of my life. Too scared to venture out, I shut the door on my vocation in the name of security.<br />
<br />
Unsurprisingly, I grew to resent it. I was running away from the beautiful life that God is calling us toward all for the influence of a few "what if"s.<br />
<br />
Finally, I cracked and told him of my change of heart. We spent a weekend together praying and talking with our parents and couples we trust.<br />
<br />
We emerged at the end of it with a new wedding date that is not too far away. It means I will leave home, my job, my friends, everything I've ever known.<br />
<br />
You'd think I'd be melting. But actually, I have more peace and joy in my soul than I have in a very long time.<br />
<br />
Together, we made a decision to step out of that barn and give freely to each other what God has given to us.<br />
<br />
It's time to take that light once hidden under a basket and let the whole world see its radiance.<br />
<br />
I can't wait.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-41838319769922372582013-04-24T13:55:00.007-04:002013-04-24T13:55:59.191-04:00Things I want to rememberI saw this on Facebook today and it spoke to my heart. I think I'm going to memorize it.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>“O my God, Trinity whom I adore, help me forget myself entirely so to establish myself in you, unmovable and peaceful as if my soul were already in eternity. May nothing be able to trouble my peace or make me leave you, O my unchanging God, but may each minute bring me more deeply into your mystery! Grant my soul peace. Make it your heaven, your beloved dwelling and the place of your rest. May I never abandon you there, but may I be there, whole and entire, completely vigilant in my faith, entirely adoring, and wholly given over to your creative action. Amen." </i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i></i>--Bl. Elizabeth of the Trinity</blockquote>
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-49238978441498567582013-04-05T22:33:00.001-04:002013-04-06T00:01:54.860-04:00LoveTwo weeks ago, I went to Long Island to spend some much-deserved time away with my other half.<br />
<br />
Since we were approaching Holy Week, he brought me out to a nearby parish that was hosting a Lenten retreat experience called "Journey to the Cross."<br />
<br />
The parish hall had been turned into a space of prayer, full of candles and music. The room was divided into 12 stations, each one depicting a particular event from the last week of Jesus' life. We blessed ourselves with holy water on the way in, and were greeted by a volunteer who told us to take as much time at each station as we liked. The room was open all day long, so we also had plenty of privacy and space.<br />
<br />
The first wasn't actually about Jesus, but about us. Signs on the wall asked us to think about how we would spend our last week in life. There were postcards and pens on the table, and we silently sat down to write.<br />
<br />
I exhaled hard. Even contemplating death sends me into a tailspin.<br />
<br />
Still, I quieted my mind and pushed back the lump in my throat. What did I want?<br />
<br />
I wanted a week full of family, faith, joy. I wanted to travel. I wanted to thank my parents for everything, especially the seeds of faith they planted in my childhood. I wanted to be with Jesus in Adoration.<br />
<br />
<i>I will fear nothing, because I know that I belong to the God who loves me. He has always cared for me, and He will never let me go. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I stared at the little card and blinked back tears before writing the last line:<br />
<br />
<i>I want to leave this world in Brian's arms, and walk into His.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
---<br />
<br />
Later, the stations found us contemplating the Passion. We wrote a note to God on palms, tossed coins as the moneychangers in the Temple in repentance for our sins, washed our hands as a reminder of our redemption, ate bread as the Apostles did at the Last Supper.<br />
<br />
The second half was darker: drinking straight vinegar from the "cup of suffering," writing our names on a kiss of betrayal, nailing our sins to a wooden cross.<br />
<br />
But at the end we planted seeds, a sign of the Resurrection. Jesus waited for us in Adoration there, the floor covered with carpet, pillows and blankets.<br />
<br />
I sat on the floor wrapped in a blanket inscribed with the words of the Serenity Prayer. Brian laid prostrate beside me. I counted my blessings and thanked God for each one. He has always given me exactly what I need. And He always would.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
We sat at an Irish pub later that night, watching one of our friends play a classic rock gig. I sipped a White Russian and tried to savor every moment of these days as a "normal" couple ... I would go back home the next day. Back to distance, back to waiting, back to life without him by my side.<br />
<br />
"Melissa."<br />
<br />
I startled at hearing his voice on the microphone. Our friend sat beside him and started to play the guitar. What was this about?<br />
<br />
Internally I groaned. I hate attention, but bless his heart, the man is not shy about showing his love for me. I did my best to focus on the words as he sang, glad for the gesture but wondering why he would do such a thing.<br />
<br />
<i>Baby, can you answer this question for me? </i><br />
<i>When did God seem to find the time to make you so perfectly?</i><br />
<i>And baby, I think we're much more than maybe, </i><br />
<i>So what's the point in wasting all this time? </i><br />
<i>We've got all our lives to see. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I listened closely, the musician in me racking my brain to figure out what song this was, but I'd never heard it before. It was hard to focus. Unbridled, reckless joy rolled off of him in waves, and I couldn't help but feel emotional knowing it was over <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
The song was almost over. I kicked my feet, still trying to shake off my bashfulness at the public display of affection.<br />
<br />
<i>Baby, can you answer one last question for me?</i><br />
<i>'Cause I've had this on my mind</i><br />
<i>And I think it's time to see.</i><br />
<br />
"Oh, my God," I said aloud, at once flushed and freezing. I couldn't be. <i>It couldn't be.</i> But as he watched my face and grinned from ear to ear, I couldn't help but beam back at him. I knew. And he knew I knew.<br />
<br />
<i>So will you...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I will forever remember him walking back to our table as he sang, microphone in one hand, the other in his pocket.<br />
<br />
<i>Will you...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He stood in front of me, then knelt before me, offering a delicate ring. Sparkling but simple, not glitzy. Elegant. Just my style. Perfect.<br />
<br />
He was perfect for me.<br />
<br />
<i>Marry me?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I didn't hesitate.<br />
<br />
"Yes I will."<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Now, we plan "we." I look at the diamond on my left hand and wonder if this is all real. You couldn't have told me two years ago when I met him that I would marry Brian.<br />
<br />
But God has mapped our steps. Over and over again He has pointed us toward each other, crossed our paths, even given me a second chance when I turned him down once before.<br />
<br />
"All things work for the good of those who love Him..."<br />
<br />
Our life together will be a living witness of His love.<br />
<br />
We can't wait. Please pray for us.<br />
<br />
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-16577264175483837952013-04-04T09:00:00.000-04:002013-04-05T23:29:23.030-04:00HopeIt takes a lot to disrupt the rhythm of work at my newsroom. We are a daily newspaper, and for most of the reporters, deadline is always looming.<br />
<div>
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<div>
But on a Wednesday afternoon three weeks ago, white smoke from the Sistine Chapel brought our workday to a standstill.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am the only Catholic in the newsroom, and some of the editors began to pepper me with questions: how long until we know? What are the odds it'll be an American? Who are some of the front-runners?<br />
<br />
I told them what I knew, then spent the next 20 minutes with my other half on the phone, glued to both the TV and my computer. Whenever something big happens in the news, I immerse myself in social media. It's an incredible way to gauge the world's pulse. But I digress.<br />
<br />
<i>Habemus papam!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Finally. Finally the Chair of Peter was filled. The uncertainty and waiting were behind us now.<br />
<br />
I remember the first time I heard the name Jorge Bergoglio. "What?" I asked aloud, as if the cardinal making the announcement would repeat it for me. "Who is that?"<br />
<br />
Of all the names I had read and studied since the announcement of Pope Benedict's resignation a month before, Bergoglio's wasn't one. He was brand new to me and, judging by the muted reaction from the crowd, I wasn't alone.<br />
<br />
But like many, in the scramble to learn as much as I could as fast as I could, I grew to like him.<br />
<br />
And when the smiling, easygoing Pope Francis bowed before the crowd in St. Peter's Square to ask for their prayers, my heart swelled with hope.<br />
<br />
In the days immediately following his election, just about everyone buzzed about this gentle, but uncompromising Jesuit from Buenos Aires. And to my great surprise, the reaction was overwhelmingly positive, even among those in my life who are fallen away or non-Catholic.<br />
<br />
He had reached them already with his unassuming acts of love.<br />
<br />
Only three weeks into his papacy now, Francis is still causing ripples across the Church and the rest of the world. Some are incredulous at his unprecedented break with (small "t") tradition. Some are hopeful it means the Church will change her teaching. Others are convinced he will reverse much of the good accomplished by Benedict.<br />
<br />
I try to ignore all that. What I know for sure is that the Holy Spirit will always protect the Church, whether Francis succeeds or fails.<br />
<br />
But from what I've seen so far, I believe God has given us just the man we need right now. I say to the doubters what he said to us just a few days ago: "Don't let anyone rob you of hope."<br />
<br />
I won't.<br />
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-64203459904390446382013-04-01T09:00:00.000-04:002013-04-05T23:56:26.925-04:00Faith and FeelingsHappy Easter! I come to the end of the day as I do every year: relieved, at peace, and full of amazement that I am sustained by God's grace.<br />
<br />
This Lent was a challenge in ways I never expected. I've spent the entire season tending to my health, and the demands of recovery often caused serious distractions in my prayer life.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm finally beginning to recover, I confess that part of me wants a second chance at Lent, another shot to "do it right." At the same time, though, I was confident that there would still be lessons to learn.<br />
<br />
The biggest lesson of all came during the Triduum this week.<br />
<br />
Recently, during a discussion with my deacon's wife, I was asked to confront my feelings surrounding death and the afterlife. Both of these are difficult subjects for me — I've struggled with an intense fear of dying since I was very small, and the idea of an afterlife is perhaps the most trying on my faith. That conversation, coupled with my own contemplation in the following days, prompted a visit from my old friend Doubt.<br />
<br />
But I've walked this road so many times that it almost doesn't hurt anymore. Almost.<br />
<br />
At the Good Friday service, I found myself feeling desensitized by the Passion. It was all so long ago, and we are so far removed from it now. Can we trust what we've been told? Do I really believe all this?<br />
<br />
I cried as we knelt for Communion. There are days when I feel like I have no faith, that I'm living a lie and shouldn't really be there at all if I don't feel it ring true in my soul.<br />
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But as I walked up to receive, it hit me.<br />
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I might not have warm fuzzies of belief in my heart or a bedrock certainty of God's existence, but I do have the <i>desire </i>to believe. I'm very far from perfect, but that's not going to stop me from showing up and living out my life trying to love like Jesus. God looks at our intentions, especially in our struggles.<br />
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Faith, like love, is a <i>decision</i> that we have to make every day. It's not the consolation. I was mistaking faith for feelings.<br />
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And I may not always have belief, but I've learned that I really do have faith, after all. That is something to rejoice in this Easter season.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-12447396556209992352013-03-28T23:46:00.001-04:002013-03-28T23:46:29.295-04:00"Create in me a clean heart...""Do you realize what I have done for you?"<br />
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I can imagine the night when Peter sat down for the Seder with Jesus. The stuffy warmth of the upper room full of conversation, prayer and song, and in the midst of it all, a torrent of emotions.<br />
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Judas' impending betrayal. The devotion and zeal of the Eleven. Jesus' fear, pain and doubt.<br />
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And I can imagine the awestruck hush that settled over that room when, moved by love, the Messiah stooped down to wash the feet of the one that would deny him the very next day.<br />
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Can you imagine it? By then Peter knew the truth about Jesus, but didn't quite grasp its full implications. He knew that he had been named the Rock, but didn't understand what that would mean.<br />
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And now the Christ was condescending to <i>him?</i><br />
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Peter's reaction to this gift — vehement refusal — rang familiar in my heart. "But why?" the both of us seem to think incredulously, "Why are you doing this? This shouldn't be!"<br />
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Yet Jesus did it anyway. He washed Peter clean knowing full well everything that would transpire in mere hours between them.<br />
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He wanted to set a precedent. Serve even when you are no longer served. Love without limits. Give without expectation. Forgive before the apology, or better yet, forgive even before the sin.<br />
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His is a radical, earth-shattering, life-altering love that offends our sense of justice. With Jesus, we never get what we deserve.<br />
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Or perhaps we do. In the midst of our grit and grime, sin and shame, failure and floundering, we are still children of the God who loves us with immeasurable depth.<br />
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And he will continue to wash us clean. All we have to do is ask.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-54928813188520172522013-03-03T10:00:00.000-05:002013-03-03T15:41:14.418-05:00KnotsI've been joking lately that my hair is becoming my vanity.<br />
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I'm a brunette with the blessing of natural highlights in auburn and blonde; it's almost radiant when the sun catches me just right. And these days it's longer, falling to my shoulder blades.<br />
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It's a beautiful thing, but more hair means more maintenance.<br />
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And more maintenance means more hassle.<br />
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I get these awful knots almost every time I wash my hair, tiny, impossibly tight tangles that take ages to work through. Most of the time I get impatient and either leave some in or rip through them.<br />
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Last night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror and attempting to tame that knotted mop got me thinking.<br />
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The state of my hair was a reflection of my heart: a mess.<br />
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So many different elements have woven together at the wrong time and place. They were pulled, twisted, bent and broken until all that remained was an incomprehensible, painful web.<br />
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It got that way by accident. And now, my task is to untangle those knots.<br />
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It took care and patience to fix my hair last night. Slow, gentle working strand by strand, first with my fingers and then a brush. I couldn't just run a comb through my hair from roots to ends and expect results. That would have just left me with a pound of hair in the sink, and less of it on my head. Ouch.<br />
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I had to take my time. I had to go slow. I had to be compassionate and careful.<br />
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Yes, it took longer than I hoped and I was certainly frustrated, but after some honest effort, I was back to looking my best.<br />
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I have to step back and remember to treat my soul with that same tenderness and love.<br />
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I'm realizing that I'm not going to get to where I want to be overnight or as quickly as I expected. It is becoming a true test of humility to accept that the journey toward healing will be a long one.<br />
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But if I'm prepared to truly take my time, to respect what my body and intuition are telling me, and to allow others in to give me the help I need, I think I'll be okay eventually.<br />
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Scratch that. I know I will.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-84348600471111148602013-02-28T00:21:00.000-05:002013-02-28T00:21:18.335-05:00Lessons from my PapaToday the Church will say goodbye to its physical head as Pope Benedict XVI abdicates his role as Bishop of Rome.<br />
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For the first time in my life as a practicing Catholic, the Chair of St. Peter will be vacant.<br />
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There will be no Papa.<br />
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And oddly, it's not because he's died.<br />
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In so many ways, this resignation allows me to rejoice. So many young people of my generation will always hold up Bl. John Paul II as "their" pope, the one who crystallized their faith and encouraged them in times of weariness.<br />
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I never had that grace. When John Paul died in 2005, I was still actively involved in the occult. As far as I was concerned, he was not my pope.<br />
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And yet I still found myself glued to the TV that day after school, unable to turn away from the vigil taking place in St. Peter's Square.<br />
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Something flickered in me then, and I felt it tangibly. Perhaps it was the flame of grace that would lead me back home almost exactly two years later.<br />
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The flicker came again a few weeks later, when I watched Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger emerge from what we still all considered John Paul's apartment, wearing John Paul's clothes, giving John Paul's blessing.<br />
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It felt strange, even to me.<br />
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But that shy man's smile stuck with me that day. And so did the stories that poured in as we learned more: his love for cats, his classically-trained piano skills, and his reluctance to accept the papacy.<br />
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Maybe we should have known then that he would leave it this way. Indeed, it seems now that he left us little signs everywhere. We just failed to see it then.<br />
<br />
The day Benedict announced his resignation brought a storm of mixed feelings in the Catholic circles I'm in. Most were confused. Some were even angry, asking how he could abandon us, abandon his mission, like it was nothing. They compared him to an absent parent, to a Christ who came down from the Cross because it was just too much.<br />
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And they all spoke of John Paul and the hero's death he died after bearing the terrible burden of Parkinson's disease.<br />
<br />
But I saw something different that day.<br />
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I saw a man who grappled long and furiously with the ever-increasing demands of his Church.<br />
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I saw a man who was self-aware, honest and humble enough to admit that the role he held for eight years was now overwhelming him.<br />
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But most importantly, I saw a man who was brave enough to let go. He knew that the best thing for the Church <i>and </i>for his flock was to step back, lay down the Cross, and allow Jesus to care for his wounds.<br />
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I was in bed that day, still very sick after weeks of a viral infection, and crippled emotionally by the sudden, vicious return of anxiety that's stalked me for years.<br />
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And in that moment, my Papa's actions said to me, "You don't have to be superwoman. You can let go. You can get the help you need and deserve as a dignified daughter of God."<br />
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He has followed the invitation of our gentle Lord: "Come to Me, all you who labor and are weary, and I will give you rest."<br />
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He has gone to rest and gone to heal. And thanks to his example, I will do the same.<br />
<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-197103785802843262013-02-08T02:33:00.004-05:002013-02-08T02:35:37.500-05:00Waiting in the Wings<i>Happy New Year. I missed it all in the flurry of holiday parties and cold nights curled up with that man I love so much. I've been feeling guilty, almost, about not being present here. It's that journalistic urge to archive and document. It gets upset when I let the moments pass undocumented.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But I wanted to forget all that for a while and just live.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I wrote this after some time spent poring over the beautiful soul that is <a href="http://www.sarahkoller.com/">Sarah Koller</a>. Her words woke up my muse again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>My resolution this year is to be real. Normally, I would hesitate to post this ... but it is about as real as I get. I won't hold that back.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>~*~*~</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I am a bundle of unopened potential.<br />
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So often I look at myself as a butterfly still encased in her chrysalis, her wings still knitting together bit by bit, cell by cell. The process, the waiting, it's all painstaking. It makes me want to MOVE.<br />
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I don't want to wait. I want those wings, here and now, today. There is a place for me, a ministry, and God pulls with such vigor on my heart that all of me aches to GO.<br />
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But I can't. Not yet. I need to still the longings that threaten to burst out of my seams long enough to realize a bit of truth.
I am living with my head, my heart, my soul engaged in a moment -- a version of myself, even -- that hasn't been born yet.<br />
<br />
I ache for Wife. I ache for the moment when I can do more than sit and watch two separate and separated lives unfold. I am restless with My Life and all its beauty because my heart is so invested in the hope that is Our Life.<br />
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I ache for Mommy, for the grabbing little hands at my skin and little smiles at my heart. Even if they aren't my flesh and blood, I want nothing more than to pour love out on little souls like water to flowers. I want to watch them blossom. I want to raise up love and joy and courage in young hearts, so that they can mend a little of this world's broken one.<br />
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I ache for youth minister and blogger and teacher and freelancer and neighbor and a million other things.<br />
<br />
But along the way, I feel a bit of gentle urgency in my head, a little voice of reason in the midst of all that heart: "Do not forget today. Do not abandon now. Do not bury YOU."<br />
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Sometimes, I forget to be content with me. Content with my weakness and vulnerability. Content with a hair part not quite straight, a shirt that doesn't fit quite right, a sandwich taking 20 minutes to make, a heart not quite committed, a soul not quite convinced.<br />
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But that is Me. She is ME. I love her. I have to love her now, today. Not when I get to where I'm going.<br />
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Love, it grows. It’s knit together in that chrysalis, just like me.<br />
<br />
I need to be patient. The little growth of today is in itself, at its core, a miracle. My days are a work of God's artistic brilliance.<br />
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The chrysalis is beautiful. Its fragility, its safety, its promise ... that is where I live today.<br />
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And even though sometimes I catch myself forgetting, I do like it here.
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-2352932573686830382012-12-22T23:11:00.004-05:002012-12-22T23:11:44.958-05:00What Christmas really meansI've got to admit, it hasn't been the easiest of Advent seasons.<br />
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It remains and probably always will be my favorite liturgical season. I love the sense of wonder and hushed anticipation that falls over my heart that first night we sing "O Come O Come Emmanuel" at Mass.<br />
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We are waiting for the arrival of Love Himself, the very reason for our joy.<br />
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And yet, the darkness of this world has cast a somber shadow over that hope.<br />
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We know the world needs God. But then a young man succumbing to mental illness and rage takes the lives of so many little children.<br />
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We know that God provides. But then end of the year layoffs come, leaving many jobless just in time for the new year, with little or no time to prepare.<br />
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We know that God calls us very good. But then it seems like even the best of our actions with the purest intentions are tainted by pride and sin.<br />
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We know that God's ways are above our ways. But then someone barely older than you dies tragically only days before Christmas, leaving his family shattered.<br />
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Scandal, loss, death, destruction, violence, selfishness, sin ... it's everywhere. And in our grief at the state of our society, in the struggle to find answers, healthy dialogue dissolves into bitter arguments, hurt feelings, and empty political rhetoric.<br />
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It's enough to tempt even the most steadfast believer to ask, "Where is God?"<br />
<br />
My heart has been heavy over the last few weeks, weighed down by both personal trials and grief for the world around me that is hurting so badly.<br />
<br />
The other night I went to a little chapel in town barely the size of my bedroom, a property built and maintained by five generations of a local family. I admired their large Nativity scene that was set up along the entire front wall and simmered in thought, trying to make sense of all that's happened.<br />
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I came up with only one thought. It's not an answer to the "why" on everyone's mind, and it doesn't attempt to pinpoint God's will.<br />
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But what I do know is this: this is why the Christ Child came. This is the world to which he was given, a world as marred by devastation then as it is now.<br />
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In the midst of this senseless pain ... Jesus has come. And He <i>is</i> restoring the world, one broken heart at a time.<br />
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Jesus is our Emmanuel. He truly is "God with us."Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-91811419539119037392012-12-01T00:11:00.003-05:002012-12-01T00:11:37.707-05:00Christmas MagicI stumbled upon this video while browsing Facebook tonight. What a beautiful way to kick off the Advent season!<br />
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Enjoy.<br />
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<br />
<object width="640" height="480"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/10152261051100043"></param><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/10152261051100043" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="1" width="640" height="480"></embed></object>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-46765144665977609032012-11-26T21:34:00.000-05:002012-11-26T21:34:19.823-05:00On catharsis and hurricanesLast summer, Hurricane Irene barreled up the East Coast, plunging my home and my soul into darkness.<div>
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It was a pivotal time for me, a distinct event that opened my eyes to the miserable status quo I'd resigned myself to years before.</div>
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When the lights came back on, I emerged with a renewed desire to do things <i>right. </i>And, thanks be to God, that resolution continues to carry me through. Holiness is no longer something I achieve by "luck" in rare, isolated circumstances. It's a lifestyle choice.</div>
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But sometimes I stumble, as we all do. </div>
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And a few weeks ago, Hurricane Sandy brought with her a torrent of rain and emotion.</div>
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I was down for a lot of reasons, struggling with some old sins and past hurts in a way that made me wonder if I've really grown at all. That discouragement only further weakened my soul and stoked a nasty temper to boot.</div>
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So last Saturday, I sat in the confessional with my father confessor, lamenting my actions and berating myself in the process for feeling sad and broken.</div>
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"But what are you <i>really </i>angry about?" he asked.</div>
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I was confused. But he told me that all of the lashing out and other sins were rooted in deeper problems that I hadn't considered. More importantly, he identified my tendency to hold things in as gasoline for my fire.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
My penance that day, in addition to some Hail Marys, was to start talking about the things that trouble me. And not only did I have to talk about it, but I had to give myself over to whatever emotions I experienced. He wanted me to truly feel in order to come out the other side actually relieved, instead of resorting to quick, random outbursts.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
And worst of all? He wanted me to do this specifically with my boyfriend. I fought Father on this, but he was unrelenting. "Hey, you want to share real love with him, right? Then you have to share yourself," he said. "Even the ugly parts."</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>That poor, poor man,</i> I thought wryly. <i>I already burden him so much. The last thing he needs is </i>more <i>of that nonsense...</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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But I listened. And this week I have soaked that poor man's chest with my sobs and given voice to deep worries I've only half talked about for years.</div>
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I'll be honest, it sucked. It hurt my pride. It made me feel even weaker and even more of a burden. I was angry all over again.</div>
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But at the end of that, I felt a relief that was palpable and lasting. I'm learning so much humility in this new little experiment. </div>
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<div>
I'm learning that flushing those emotions out makes room for a clearer, calmer head, too. It's easier to make reasonable decisions when your head isn't full of junk.</div>
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And I'm learning that love, real love, is about a lot more than the moments when you're on the top of your game. </div>
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Even with tears still dripping off my chin and snot bubbling from my nose, I am still loved. I am a hurricane in my own way, but I am still strong. I have ugly moments, but they will never take away the fact that I am a wholly beautiful woman.</div>
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What wonderful lessons to learn.</div>
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-91951340752800674642012-10-31T23:53:00.001-04:002012-11-01T01:18:17.511-04:00Older and WiserIn the morning, I turn 23.<br />
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It's always a little bittersweet for me to leave one year behind and move into a new one. It's a poignant reminder that time doesn't stop for anyone, no matter how much we'd like to freeze some moments forever.<br />
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This year has been far from easy. I've been challenged in more ways and experienced more heartache than I think I ever have before.<br />
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But here's the thing: in all of that, I got stronger. I changed and grew. And I can say with a quiet sort of pride that now, on the other side of this year, I truly have come a long way.<br />
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The girl I was a year ago was someone defeated. I was trapped in sin, despair, and so much self-criticism that I couldn't even see straight. I looked to the future, to the life I saw ahead of me, and I choked on it. I didn't think I had it in me to become the woman God is calling me to be.<br />
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I learned something important about that from Simcha Fisher, a blogger at the <i>National Catholic Register</i>.<br />
<br />
It's true that the present version of myself isn't ready for the future. But present-me is perfectly suited for <i>where I am right now</i>. And when I get to The Future, whatever it holds, I'll be ready then, too.<br />
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I've seen the hand of God all over my life, especially looking back on the tough seasons when I thought He had abandoned me. The truth is that He was never gone. If anything, He was closer then, working in the midst of it all to mold me into something even more graceful and good.<br />
<br />
This year, he freed me from addiction. He brought me to love His wonderful Mother, who I've always been lukewarm about. He allowed me to face some of my greatest failures from the past in order to forgive myself. He showed me I could be trusted to love and support another precious soul. He showed me I'm not the failure I thought I was. He showed me that I <i>am </i>good, that I <i>can </i>love fully, and that I <i>am, </i>in every sense of the word, unquestionably beautiful.<br />
<br />
If that's not a laundry list of triumphs, I don't know what is! Alleluia!<br />
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The year ahead is full of questions and difficulties; that much is certain. But it's also full of hope, discovery and transformation.<br />
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I have God. No one can or will ever take Him away from me. With Him, and with the wonderful people He's blessed me with, I really can get through anything.<br />
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All I want this year is to experience more of that beauty, love and joy in my life, and to share that everywhere I can.<br />
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I can't wait to get started!Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-32924102316030651832012-09-28T08:00:00.000-04:002012-09-28T08:00:12.012-04:00Beautiful ThingsLast weekend I was blessed with the opportunity to make the trip up to Long Island and visit my boyfriend. My last time visiting was a day trip just a month into our relationship, and he was anxious to show me the new life he's built there.<br />
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It was, in a word, eye-opening.<br />
<br />
The Diocese of Rockville Center is alive with activity, especially when compared to my own, rather elderly corner of the Catholic world.<br />
<br />
We got lucky planning my visit when we did – as it turns out, a monthly holy hour for vocations fell during that weekend. I remembered him describing them to me in the past, but I wasn't prepared for what I saw.<br />
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People. <i>Tons</i> of people, from middle school to 20s and up. In fact, there were more than 500 of us there, so many that there was no longer any room in the pews. Instead, people sat on chairs and on the floor, in the aisles and around the altar. To say the place was packed is an understatement.<br />
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At dusk, before Adoration began I went to confession outside in the host church's rose garden. It was serene and quiet, which surprised me; there were ten or so priests scattered on the grass, and yet we couldn't hear their conversations at all.<br />
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I have to admit the hour itself was pretty cool. It was geared toward youth, and I was impressed by how eager the crowd was to get involved. Those kids could <i>sing. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And yet, in what could only be described as a miracle, you could have heard a pin drop as soon as the Blessed Sacrament was exposed. Have you ever seen a bunch of quiet middle schoolers? Everyone knew Who they were there to see.<br />
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I walked away from that night encouraged. Where I'm from, the Church believes that youth have given up on faith. The number of youth groups has dwindled, with very little activity from most of those that remain. It feels to me that the attitude is one of "Why bother? They won't come."<br />
<br />
Long Island proved to me what I always knew: they will come. And this is truly what John Paul II called the Church's "new springtime." It's beautiful. I'm so glad to be a part of it.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
The next day we visited the <a href="http://www.ourladyoftheisland.org/">Shrine of Our Lady of the Island</a>, which felt less like a shrine and more like a 65-acre Catholic nature walk. The whole day was a perfect opportunity to reflect on the ways I've grown in the past year, especially in my blossoming relationship with Mary.<br />
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We walked the Stations of the Cross at the end of the day, the climax of which is a long flight of stairs leading to a life-size Crucifixion scene. I knelt on the stone ledge to pray and in about 90 seconds felt it digging deep into my shins and ankles.<br />
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I willed myself to stay down despite watering eyes and am so glad I did. Yes, it was very painful; I still have the bruises. But in that time of prayer, I got to experience suffering that <i>meant something. </i>It showed me in a tangible way what it means to suffer for the sake of love. All I had to do was look up at His face and remember. Pain is not the end.<br />
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---<br />
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<a href="http://faithandthemuse.blogspot.com/2011/10/lessons-in-silent-moments.html">A year ago</a>, I sat on his bed weighed down by the elephant in the room and the terrible, aching distance between us ... the things we couldn't express then out of fear, confusion and the sheer newness of it all.<br />
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This year, curled up together with ice cream and old Nintendo games, it hit me.<br />
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Somewhere in the midst of the last year, we grew up. I look at him now and I don't see a strange boy that I don't understand at all. I see a man, my partner.<br />
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God has used every second of our fumbled attempts at communication and vulnerability to teach us. Through all our mistakes and the cross of separation, He has brought about an incredible good: honest, messy, life-breathing love.<br />
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It hasn't always been easy. But every day, we ask for daily bread. And we get back more than we could ever deserve.<br />
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It's like that Gungor song: "You make beautiful things out of the dust..."<br />
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-33417377647874566972012-08-19T16:22:00.000-04:002015-04-14T12:36:04.141-04:00The Clothes RantEvery now and then, a topic of discussion comes up that crawls under my skin and stays there. One of them is attire for Mass.<br />
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I came back to the Church at 17, and at that time I owned maybe one pair of dress pants. I wore jeans to Mass every weekend, thankful just to be there, grateful that God loved me just as I was.<br />
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As I got older, I started to make a conscious effort to dress more formally for Mass. I wanted to look my best for God. The jeans stayed, but t-shirts gave way to blouses and sandals or boots.<br />
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But today I sit in the pews and I worry.<br />
<br />
~*~*~<br />
<br />
In the Catholic circles I navigate now, discussions about clothes always turn to "suitability" and "appropriateness."<br />
<br />
And it becomes a string of one-upping: who wears jeans, who says jeans are unsuitable, who wears dress slacks, and who wears a full suit or a skirt, saying that's the best way to honor God.<br />
<br />
There's always someone who throws in the line that we should dress as though we were seeing the President. That one is my favorite. Now where did I hang that bridesmaid's gown ...<br />
<br />
Underneath at all, there's a current of condescension: if you don't do these things, you're not being reverent. You're not making an effort. You're not giving God what He deserves. You're not <i>good enough</i>.<br />
<br />
After a while, as you sit at Mass with these voices in the back of your mind, it can almost break your spirit.<br />
<br />
Weeks later, you pull on your best blouse and dress pants, look critically at the curvy form in the mirror, and think, "Well, at least no one will think anything of me today."<br />
<br />
Feeling safe at last, you head out the door.<br />
<br />
~*~*~<br />
<br />
This is the place I find myself these days, somewhere between endlessly frustrated and outright defeated.<br />
<br />
I have always had the heart of one who sought to honor God everywhere I went and in everything I did. That internal state remains the same regardless of what I'm wearing.<br />
<br />
But I am getting older now, and the college student label no longer "excuses" me. I find myself bending over backward about one too many things, if only to prevent cracking under the pressure of becoming a <i>Godly </i>woman. I do what I have to do in order to be accepted and to feel like I'm satisfying the church culture around me.<br />
<br />
I want to shout instead to the women in dresses and the men in suits that <i>they're not good enough, either</i>; that they are no holier or more beloved in the eyes of God than I am, despite our efforts.<br />
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I want to embrace the girl I've seen the last few weeks in chains with green hair, sitting in the front pew and going through the Mass like she <i>means </i>it. I've seen people nudge each other and whisper about her.<br />
<br />
The week we lost power in a terrible storm found me walking into Mass wearing a concert tee and short shorts — we didn't have any water to do laundry and it was all I had clean. People stared at me. Feeling humiliated, I wanted to turn around and walk out.<br />
<br />
Instead, I thanked God with so much joy for something I so often forget: God is holding <i>nothing</i> back from me. Not from me or from anyone else there, for that matter. We give Him our broken hearts and He gives us everything.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm too progressive. Hell, maybe I just don't understand.<br />
<br />
But for right now, for this place in my life, I am trying. I confess that there are days I just want to hear, "Yes, you are beautiful, and yes, you are good enough<i>.</i>"<br />
<br />
The God of <i>all creation</i> says that about <i>me!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I want that to be the only thing that matters.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-71248140794437122492012-08-13T09:00:00.000-04:002012-08-13T09:00:00.375-04:00The woman of my dreams?I watched an interesting video tonight by Catholic speaker Sarah Swafford on the idea of <i>emotional virtue. </i>It's a simple term she coined that means to control and harness our emotions in a way that lets us grow in virtue.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to leave that video here tonight, though. Instead, I thought it would be good to do a little freewriting. So much is going on with me right now (hence my long absence – mea culpa!), and a lot of it is too jumbled for my usual posts here. Tonight, I just feel like writing, even if I don't have any "wisdom" to share.<br />
<br />
Swafford said that the first step to being virtuous with our emotions is to have a goal in mind. "Ask yourself: who do I want to be? What qualities do I want to develop? Who is the woman of my dreams?"<br />
<br />
Her premise was that in order to find the man of your dreams (moral, kind, strong, etc.), you have to become the <i>woman </i>of your dreams. If you have low standards for yourself, you'll attract guys with low standards and vice versa.<br />
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I already have the best man I could have hoped for (yuck, excuse the mush! ;)), but that's no reason to stop striving to grow. If anything, I find myself wanting to work harder.<br />
<br />
So, here goes:<br />
<br />
<b>Who do I want to be? </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>I want to be brave.</i><br />
<i>I want to be emotionally strong.</i><br />
<i>I want to be joyful.</i><br />
<i>I want to be classy and elegant.</i><br />
<i>I want to be gentle and nurturing.</i><br />
<i>I want to be self-assured.</i><br />
<i>I want to be modest -- inside and out.</i><br />
<i>I want to be secure in my identity as a woman.</i><br />
<i>I want to feel comfortable in my own skin again.</i><br />
<i>I want to accept with grace who I am.</i><br />
<i>I want to concern myself only with what God thinks of me.</i><br />
<i>I want to put others first.</i><br />
<i>I want to be selfless.</i><br />
<i>I want to be firm and courageous in the face of opposition.</i><br />
<i>I want to persevere.</i><br />
<i>I want to work at my goals with a peaceful and confident attitude.</i><br />
<i>I want to trust God fully for all my concerns and needs.</i><br />
<i>I want to embrace what God has given me, and be accepting of what He hasn't.</i><br />
<i>I want to live in the present moment with hope for the future.</i>
<br />
<i>I want to be a shelter for my future husband.</i><br />
<i>I want to be a reflection of God's love to the world.</i><br />
<i>I want to make a difference.</i><br />
<i><u>I want to love like Jesus.</u></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That's the ideal version of myself. That's the woman of my dreams. Isn't she beautiful?<br />
<br />
You'll notice I purposely avoided negatives ("don't, less, instead of") when making this list. It was <b>tough</b> to speak positively without criticizing my flaws, but if I hope to make progress in this, I need to talk about (and to!) myself the same way I want to treat others – with compassion and respect.<br />
<br />
I guess it's important to see the progress I've already made, too. I've come a very long way, that's for sure, especially in the last year. Little by little, I'm becoming the woman of my dreams. I just need to keep at it and be patient.<br />
<br />
What would your list look like? Feel free to leave a comment or write a post of your own. :) Have a great week, folks.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-8279128848870204372012-06-24T19:21:00.003-04:002012-06-24T19:21:23.681-04:00This is not the end.While my official job title involves work as a health reporter, I also work a few evenings a week on the copy desk, proofreading pages for the next day's newspaper.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I read <a href="http://www.startribune.com/opinion/commentaries/157531915.html">this column by syndicated Washington Post columnist Esther J. Cepeda</a>. It's short, so I encourage you to read the whole thing, but just in case you don't, here are the highlights.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Recently, all signs have pointed to the fact that a lot of people -- especially those of us with the unbending egotistical belief that we have what it takes to be among the few survivors of a cataclysm -- are sort of pining for "the end." <span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
How else to explain the zeal with which news of the bizarre Miami tragedy, in which a naked man attacked a homeless man by stripping his clothes off and then mauling his face, spurred rumors of a coming zombie apocalypse?</blockquote>
<br />
It's very true that the news has been exceptionally dismal and bizarre in this post-9/11 world. And Cepeda writes that some people took comfort in the possibility of the Mayan calendar predicting the Apocalypse this December.<br />
<br />
After all, when things are this bad, they can't exactly get much worse, right? At least if the world ends, the violence and turmoil we're experiencing will go with it.<br />
<br />
Poverty, war, injustice, abuse, divorce, abortion, infidelity ... they've always been with us. Read the Old Testament if you need evidence. Cepeda continues:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
It seems like everything's going to pieces anyway, so why not entertain the possibility that the end is near? It's comforting.
How else are we expected to cope...?</blockquote>
To those who lack faith, it's very easy to despair. Without faith, there's no way out of this. We are helpless and there's no hope, never mind an explanation of why this is happening.<br />
<br />
But for those with faith, the truth is simple: this world isn't home. This isn't the way things were meant to be. We are called to something much greater. These things are written on the hearts of every person, theist or otherwise.<br />
<br />
That's how I would answer Esther Cepeda. We cope because we believe this is not the end, and that there are better things in store.<br />
<br />
More than that, however, we also believe that redemption is possible here and now. It takes a lot to change a society, but it begins with one heart at a time. Hearts can change. Sometimes, all they need is someone to remind them.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, Jesus said it best: "The harvest is ready, but the laborers are few."<br />
<br />
Clearly, we still have work to do. Let's get out there and do it.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-32594733760618657212012-06-20T00:33:00.004-04:002012-06-20T00:33:58.411-04:00An invocation to the Sacred HeartI'm finally starting to wrap my head around devotion to the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts. It makes sense, especially considering that St. Margaret Mary Alacoque was draw as my patron saint for the year 2012.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>O Heart of love,<br />I put all my trust in Thee;<br />for I fear all things from my own weakness,<br /><span style="background-color: white;">but I hope for all things from Thy goodness. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Amen.</span></i></blockquote>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-12844048037116225432012-06-08T00:45:00.005-04:002012-06-08T00:45:42.802-04:00"We're all phamily here, right?"Back when I was in high school, it was still a little odd to say you had friends on the internet whom you'd never met before.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But for me, I've had faraway friends almost as long as I've been online. The first batch came from the virtual pet site Neopets. I still have all the letters that my friend Lieren and I exchanged from the time I was in 7th grade up through my early college years. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In high school, I fell into the fandom of a wonderful novel-length story posted on FictionPress.com. I met Courtney then; she was older than me, and both of us were practicing Pagans at the time. She was there for me when I got saved, and I shared her joy when she made the same decision a few years later. We cried together when she learned she was pregnant in my senior year, and celebrated when she delivered healthy twin girls.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then there was ExWitch, where I made many lasting friends, including the man who became my first serious boyfriend. We were together for 3 years, and while it didn't work out, I can say honestly that I wouldn't be who or where I am now if not for the time I spent with him. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it felt like the most natural thing in the world, then, when I piled into my boyfriend's truck with all my stuff and headed to Pittsburgh two weeks ago, a place I'd never been before, to meet some of the folks from Phatmass for the first time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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It wasn't weird. Not for a second. If anything, being with them felt like being home.</div>
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Here in the flesh were people I had laughed, cried and prayed with for five years, in some cases. The only difference was this time, we were finally in the same room. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Living Catholicism with every drop of my strength is sometimes a very lonely road. I came to Phatmass just two weeks before I finally went back to the Sacraments. When I did, they were there. And they've always been there, every step of the way, teaching me and lifting me up and sometimes carrying my cross when I was too broken to do so alone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One of the places we went together was St. Anthony's Chapel, which contains the largest collect of relics from the saints outside the Vatican. Before we left, I knelt at the old school communion rail to pray, and shivered. I was keenly aware that all the saints were there with me, praying with me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I felt it again at out last Mass together at St. Paul's Cathedral, overwhelmed with gratitude that God could connect so many lives from all across the world.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
We've always called ourselves phamily. Sitting around the table eating and drinking (and drinking more) together, it became more real to me I can express. "Wherever two or more are gathered in My Name..."</div>
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<br /></div>
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I love you, guys. See you next year!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://sphotos.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/533152_10150805362101594_778532506_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://sphotos.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/533152_10150805362101594_778532506_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-88296417568143809332012-05-31T23:41:00.001-04:002012-05-31T23:41:05.347-04:00A Little VisitationIt's been an insane, surreal couple of days. Unfortunately, I don't mean that in a good way.<br />
<br />
I spent the long Memorial Day Weekend vacationing in Pittsburgh at the first-ever <a href="http://www.phatmass.com/">Phatmass</a> Phamily Reunion, which I'll write about some other time. It was a wonderful trip full of new friends, fantastic food, and plenty of grace.<br />
<br />
As it turned out, I needed that grace in spades this week. When I got home, I found out that my grandmother, who's been ill for almost a decade, had taken a sudden and very serious turn for the worse while I was away. She remains critical in the hospital tonight, and combined with the injuries from a recent fall she's not well at all. Please keep her in your prayers.<br />
<br />
The "hospital rhythm" is something my family is very good at. Every few years as my grandmother's illness exacerbates, we sink back into a flow of hospital visits, odd meals and odd moods. It's gone on for so long that in some sense, it almost feels normal.<br />
<br />
But I never get over the hospitals, the nurses, the fall risk bracelet or how sad she seems there. Her pain makes <i>me </i>hurt. And I am the sort that tries to run from and ignore and drown my pain by any means necessary.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, then, visiting her in the hospital is a very difficult thing, especially now that I'm older and can choose to go on my own.<br />
<br />
My boyfriend suggested we visit her the other night, but I blanched at the idea and brushed it aside, saying I'd see her Saturday when I visited with my Mom. But after he went home that night and I laid in bed thinking about her, I felt neglectful and a touch guilty. So the next day, I told my boyfriend of my change of heart and we trudged down to the hospital.<br />
<br />
Seeing her was fine – it's the hospital setting that I find difficult. I chattered with her aimlessly for 20 minutes or so, eager to avoid the empty, awkward silence that likes to descend on me when I don't know what to do.<br />
<br />
From that difficulty, though, came something profound.<br />
<br />
I made her laugh in that 20 minutes. And I brought joy to her face and, I'm sure, to her soul. Real joy. The kind of joy that God breathes into us and wants to show us every day.<br />
<br />
It hit me like a ton of bricks when we left the hospital room, that sense of <i>rightness </i>in my gut. I had forced myself beyond my comfort zone of selfishness to truly give of myself to her. And the results made not just her day, but mine.<br />
<br />
As we walked to the parking lot, I smiled at the people we passed. And they smiled back. I gave them a reason to smile.<br />
<br />
That's how simple it is to bring God's joy to the world. On this feast of the Visitation, I always find myself reflecting on the joy Mary brought to Elizabeth's heart when she came.<br />
<br />
God's joy is everywhere. All we have to do is open ourselves to sharing it, just like Mary did.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v288/MissyP89/540171_561314580462_346172035_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v288/MissyP89/540171_561314580462_346172035_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7248190648298478682.post-76895097800959129962012-05-19T10:00:00.000-04:002012-05-19T10:00:07.062-04:00Staring at the SkyI had a wonderful Ascension Thursday this week. My Grandma was kind enough to take me to Mass, where I got to see one of my best friends from college.<br />
<br />
The readings gave me so much to think about, but for now, I just want to focus on one verse.<br />
<br />
<i>"Why are you standing there looking at the sky?"</i><br />
<br />
The question is posed to the Apostles who just saw Jesus ascend into heaven by a man dressed in white garments, likely an angel.<br />
<br />
This scene is one of many that I can picture vividly in my mind. I find so much genuine humor in Scripture, especially when the Apostles are involved. I love them – they are stubborn and clueless, just like me. ;)<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
It's easy to imagine the array of emotions cycling through their heads immediately after Jesus ascended. Only six weeks before, they watched their Lord and Savior suffer an agonizing death at Calvary. That same Jesus who had healed wounds and changed hearts after performing countless wonders was torn from their lives.<br />
<br />
And then He rose from the dead, defying everything the Apostles knew about our world. Jesus was <i>back</i> – transformed, glorified, and ready to continue His mission.<br />
<br />
After the glory of the Resurrection, to see Jesus leave would have broken my heart all over again.<br />
<br />
Can you see the shock and confusion on their faces yet? How about their pain, their disappointment, their feelings of betrayal? I can.<br />
<br />
He rose from the dead, and He has gone away <i>again, </i>saying in no uncertain terms that we cannot follow, not yet.<br />
<br />
In that moment, the magic finally ran out.<br />
<br />
That's why the angel showed up: to remind them of their hope and their vocation.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing, you idiots, staring at the sky as though something were about to fall from it? Jesus has gone to the Father to prepare a place for you. And until He calls you home to that place, He has given you a<i> mission! </i>Don't just stand there! Get out there and <i>do something!</i>"<br />
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I like to think that's what was really said.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15022196797439999229noreply@blogger.com0