A Little Visitation

It's been an insane, surreal couple of days. Unfortunately, I don't mean that in a good way.

I spent the long Memorial Day Weekend vacationing in Pittsburgh at the first-ever Phatmass 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.

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.

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.

But I never get over the hospitals, the nurses, the fall risk bracelet or how sad she seems there. Her pain makes me hurt. And I am the sort that tries to run from and ignore and drown my pain by any means necessary.

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.

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.

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.

From that difficulty, though, came something profound.

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.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when we left the hospital room, that sense of rightness 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.

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.

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.

God's joy is everywhere. All we have to do is open ourselves to sharing it, just like Mary did.

Staring at the Sky

I 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.

The readings gave me so much to think about, but for now, I just want to focus on one verse.

"Why are you standing there looking at the sky?"

The question is posed to the Apostles who just saw Jesus ascend into heaven by a man dressed in white garments, likely an angel.

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. ;)

But I digress.

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.

And then He rose from the dead, defying everything the Apostles knew about our world. Jesus was back – transformed, glorified, and ready to continue His mission.

After the glory of the Resurrection, to see Jesus leave would have broken my heart all over again.

Can you see the shock and confusion on their faces yet? How about their pain, their disappointment, their feelings of betrayal? I can.

He rose from the dead, and He has gone away again, saying in no uncertain terms that we cannot follow, not yet.

In that moment, the magic finally ran out.

That's why the angel showed up: to remind them of their hope and their vocation.

"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 mission! Don't just stand there! Get out there and do something!"

I like to think that's what was really said.

Questions from a Round Peg

Today, I was blessed to be in the right place at the right time. A dear friend is struggling with a call to a beautiful vocation. He can't reconcile in his head who he is now, and who it is God is calling him to be.

I know his struggle. It's one I have every single morning when I look in the mirror.

Who am I and where am I going?

I know where I'd like to be. The distance between here and there, now and then, suffocates me.

I'm too stubborn. Too bitter. Too jaded. Too...

Too much of a round peg in square hole, generally speaking.

I was okay with that until recently.

Suddenly, I have a future and a bold, brave, wonderful calling on my heart. This tiny mustard seed I've kept locked away, safe from the elements, is finally ready to do something.

But I'm not good enough. I'm just not good enough. And I'm not sure what to do about that.

I know who God says I am. I know who I want to be. But will the rest of the world accept me?

...Since when have I cared what "the rest of the world" thinks, anyway?

Is there room for me and all my quirks in this Church? Can I be an example to others without taking on some cleaned-up, saccharine plasticized image of womanhood that just isn't me?

I've always been my own woman. And I never want that to change, that's all.

Jesus, meek and humble of heart, make my heart like unto Thine...

The Next Five Years

I want the next five years to be different.

I want the next five years to be...

Less about mourning what I have yet to do,

But more about what God has already done 

And is doing now –

Not only in my own life,

But in every life,

Every heart,

Every soul.

I want the next five years to be...

Less full of worry for the future,

But more full of trust in what God has planned for me

And those I love –

Knowing that everything we went through yesterday,

And endure today,

Is all shaping us for tomorrow.

I want the next five years to be...

Less built on a faith of laws and rules and obligations,

But more built on the rock of God's unending love for us 

And for this whole world –

His presence in our suffering,

His compassion in our failure,

His joy in our triumph.

I want the next five years to be...

Less about

Time

Talent

Treasure

Image

Ideals

Duties

Deeds

Despair

And more about

Growing

Giving

Hope

Happiness

Perseverance

Peace

Laughter...

Love.

I want the next five years to be about love.

And that's all I want.

The Last Five Years

It's hard to believe that tomorrow afternoon will mark five years since I came back home to the Church.

Hard to believe because it feels both like ages ago and yesterday. My soul has blossomed into something I never anticipated – something strong and free and beautiful.

And yet...

Taking stock of everything this week has left me in an odd state. I gave up so much for this faith, for God. I have been pruned and tempered and humbled and tried in more ways than I can even begin to count. I have been brought to the limit of my strength and then pushed beyond it.

There were a lot of moments I wondered if I would ever see this milestone, honestly.

In those moments where I was broken and isolated, my prayers evaporating into the air unacknowledged, it was so easy to ask myself if any of this matters at all.

I found myself longing for a time when it didn't matter, when my mind wasn't constantly occupied with unanswerable questions and inconsolable worry.

God was always there for me, yes, and the tide is slowly turning. My paternal grandmother is back in the Church; I have many dear friends in the faith; and this year I've been blessed with a wonderful man who believes just as I do, that every moment should be joyful and full of His light.

...But in the last five years, I confess that I've let much of that goodness go to waste, drowned in my penchant for worry, judgement, and despair.

I may have "made it" five years, but my attitude isn't one of celebration. Mostly, I'm just glad that I survived this long.

You know something? That's a damn shame. It took me five years to realize that while God has set me free of so much, transforming my mind and soul in the process, the real gift of His love for me, for this whole world, has yet to reach my heart.

And now that I've realized it, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to let Him change that.

To be continued ...

Thomas and Me

Alleluia! Christ is risen now and risen forever!

It's been a while. But oh, what a productive while it's been...

For now, though, I need to start with the present. Divine Mercy Sunday.

One of the most beautiful things about the Church's tradition for me is our feasts. We celebrate and honor every aspect of Jesus' life and heart. And it seems that every year, there's a deeper layer of meaning to explore.

This year, sitting next to my grandmother at Divine Mercy parish of all places, I couldn't help but offer Him a humble thank you. When I began this journey of faith six years ago, I had no one. In little ways, as subtle as it may be, that tide is slowly turning.

What struck me especially this weekend was one of my favorite Gospel stories that I've heard plenty of times before: the encounter between Jesus and St. Thomas the Apostle. Elated, the eleven others who saw Jesus appear to them ran to Thomas to share the good news. But he didn't believe them.

He said, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nailmarks and put my hand in his side, I will not believe."

In that moment, I heard the bitterness in Thomas' voice and saw the sadness in his eyes.

On Good Friday, the apostles were utterly defeated. They had seen a man walk on water, heal their wounds, change their hearts. And then, all of that died with Jesus.

I bet I know how Thomas felt that night. For once, I thought things would be different, he must have thought. I had hope. I trusted Him. Then, with a sigh and a shake of the head: Perhaps I was too trusting.

Resigned to that despair, it's easy to envision the wry smirk that probably appeared at the expressions on the faces of his dearest friends. How crazy they must have looked after all they had seen. For Thomas, it was rubbing salt in the wound.

He and I, we're not all that different. We have this incredible gift of grace in our lives, but in the face of the bleak world before us, it's hard to take it seriously. It's almost impossible to believe.

So imagine Thomas' joy at that meeting. I'd wager he didn't just go to his knees before the Lord, but that they simply gave out in shock, amazement ... and relief. Jesus kept His word. He came through for Thomas, and for them all. For me.

His love and mercy endured. And it will endure forever.

Tough Love

The Ranter wrote today about the harsh measures that God takes sometimes to get to our hearts.

As a stubborn mule, I can relate. Most of the time, I know exactly what it is I need to do in order to be who He is calling me to be. I just ... don't feel like it, that's all.

There's often a myriad of reasons for this, some more acceptable than others. I doubt my abilities. I'm afraid. I'm lazy. Heeding the call would require too much sacrifice. The list goes on.

It's why I relate so much to Jonah. He resisted the Lord so obstinately that He sent a whale to swallow him. Only then did he do what he was asked.

That's been happening to me over the past few days. I've ignored the nagging voice of my conscience for too long, or made halfhearted attempts to change my habits only to revert to my old ways soon after. Deep down, I feared that my actions would come back to bite me.

Lo and behold, I was right. And now all I can do is own up to the truth, accept the consequences, and do what I can to rectify it not only in the future, but today: proactively and with commitment.

Humility is a hard lesson to learn, that's for sure.

I am the woman at the well.

This weekend, my parish used a different set of readings in honor of our catechumen going through the First Scrutiny. In the middle of Lent, those preparing to enter the Church go through a number of ceremonies to help prepare their souls for the Sacraments, and this first one was an exorcism.

The story of the woman at the well has always meant a lot to me. But this year, my pastor offered an insight I never considered before.

The Samaritan woman was a hard worker, and this trek out to the well must have been a part of her daily routine. She was exhausted and stressed from work, and yet she had to make the journey anyway.

It's no wonder Jesus piqued her interest with the offer of water that would satisfy her always.

In some ways, this woman was caught in a cycle that would never fulfill her desires – not only physically, but spiritually. She was striving for a deep and meaningful life, moving from one man's arms to another over and over again.

Sin is like that. She wanted what we all want: just to be happy. And it took that meeting with Jesus to tell her she could not, could never, achieve that under her own strength. It takes more than just willpower alone to rise above our own failings. Most of the time, we're too proud to realize it.

Too, the woman was amazed that Jesus was even wasting His time on her, a Samaritan. She was second-class. And more than that, she was an adulteress.

In that moment at the well, He saw all of the dark, wounded places in her soul that no one else had ever seen. I know how she felt then. Awe and shame and a deep sense of unworthiness.

Yet He gave her life and love anyway, knowing full well what she was.

He does the same for me, knowing what I have been, knowing that I will always fall short of the mark.

Who am I to refuse that love?

God wants to use me anyway. All I can do is thank Him, and then show the world what He has done.

A Little Birdie

Perspective really does change everything.

This morning was miserable and rainy, the sort that makes it hard to resist pulling the covers up around your ears.

Beyonce's "Single Ladies" blasted obnoxiously from my radio. My stomach grumbled impatiently for breakfast. Bleary-eyed from not enough sleep, I sighed heavily and attacked the snooze button. Nine minutes of precious silence.

I rolled over onto my back, cocooning deeper into the blankets as I began a familiar chat with the ceiling.

"Dear Lord, thank You for the gift of this day. I offer You all of my joys, my worries, my successes and failures..."

It's a morning ritual of mine. The nine minutes of that snooze period are meant for grace to shape me into something semi-capable of charity. It also steels me to face the chaos of the newsroom. I end this way:

"...and help me to see Your fingerprints and the mark of Your presence in my life today."

There are a lot of mornings when those are empty words, but I say them anyway, knowing that I need to. Knowing that it feeds my soul.

But today I just hated the rain and the noise and the day ahead. I would have much preferred shutting everything out and being a recluse.

In the last minute of my snooze time, I cursed the seconds passing way too quickly. Time to get this day over with, I thought.

And then, through the torrents of rain pounding against my window, I heard birdsong.

The little bugger was singing its heart out, bad weather be damned. He was going to be happy anyway.

I couldn't help but smile, then laugh. God's fingerprints are everywhere, all the time, if we're open to seeing them.

Today was a great day, all thanks to a bird.

An Ambitious Lent?

For the first time in ages, Lent was a welcome sight on the calendar.

God in His mercy has done so much for me this year. High up on the list is that I have a clearer sense of my  vocation to marriage and motherhood than I ever have before.

In the past, it was always something I wanted, like a good job. But now I know that it's a true calling. God is asking me if I will serve Him this way when the time is right.

Truly realizing that has drawn both incredible joy and a lot of self-doubt from my soul.

I'm so many things: selfish, immature, insecure and bad at expressing what's on my heart. How in the world am I supposed to love a man with my whole life? And then, with that love, take part in creating new life? Nurturing souls? Guiding people to heaven?


The hugeness of that is enough to paralyze me at times. But it also starts a fire in my bones.

I may not be ready now, but the Spirit is crying out to me just like John the Baptist did. "Prepare the way of the Lord!"

Lent couldn't have come at a better time. I needed motivation to evaluate my life and start taking baby steps toward change.

This year, it feels less like sacrifice and more like stretching my aching muscles after years of laziness. It hurts like hell right now, but at the same time, it feels amazing.

I started with cutting out sweets (including coffee, sigh) and adding gentle exercise in an attempt to rein in the screaming toddler that my body can be. While I've taken huge strides in self-discipline over the past six months, there's still a depressingly long way to go.

Only a few days ago, I stole a second idea from a friend: praying and offering my daily sufferings for 40 people who have asked, one per day. I'm hoping it'll teach me to think a little less about my needs and more about those around me. I'm already starting to see beautiful things happen as a result of those prayers, if only subtly.

On Wednesday, when I took ashes on my forehead and marked myself with His Cross, it was the most natural thing in the world. My brokenness and need for Him is painfully easy to admit. There's no way I'm going to become the woman my future family -- whatever it looks like -- needs me to be without His grace.

The beauty of this season is that if we play our cards right, we get to rise out of this stronger, a little more capable, and a little more like Him.

I'm not going to run or bemoan the challenge this year. Instead, I want to milk it for all its worth.

Bring it on.