Encouragement

Ok, so I will admit it publicly, this embarrassing little secret of mine: I love the Duggars. I absolutely love their hokey little show and their genuinely loving family life. What do I love most? Michelle Duggar. She is positive, upbeat, encouraging. In fact, she uses the word "encourage" more than nearly anyone else in my experience.


The first time I watched them was several years ago. I think they only had 14 kids then, and they had a 1-hour special on cable. I was floored. These people were nuts, absolutely, certifiably nuts. But, they also seemed "nice."


It wasn't until last summer that I became a real fan of their show. I don't watch every single episode, but if I am sitting down to watch tv and they are on, I'm watching them.


What started as me wasting 30 minutes gawking at someone with a radically different take on life has become one of my guilty pleasures: spending half an hour watching another Christian family live out the Gospel to the best of their ability. And the core of their Gospel-living is encouragement.


Michelle uses that word, encouragement, all the time. But, she does more than talk. She backs up her talk with action. She encourages her children. The children encourage one another. The Duggar family encourages other families by their actions (outright helping one another) and by their example of living a truly "open-to-life" Christian lifestyle in the public eye.


Before I started watching their show, I never gave much thought to encouragement as a Christian value. In the past eight months, I've considered it often. And I've considered how much it means when I am encouraged in my endeavors, big and small.


Six weeks ago, we sold the above-ground swimming pool that had come with our house a decade ago. We were left with a muddy circle, 24 feet in diameter, in the middle of our backyard, one month from our big First Communion celebration. I immediately went to work, unloading 2,200 pounds of topsoil, fertilizing, seeding, watering twice a day. I was determined to replace the mud with grass before the end of April.


By the grace of Providence, we had several weeks of perfect growing weather. I watered twice a day. Lots of sunshine and warm temperatures, combined with cooler evenings, had seedlings sprouting in less than a week. Now, a month later, I've filled in some bare spots with a second batch of seed, and am pleased to see that we have just a few small patches of bare ground left.


This project was my baby, and I was encouraged by the speed at which the grass grew. But, one night, about two weeks into the growing, DH turned to me, in front of our kids, and told me how proud he was of the yard. "You did it. You did a great job. I'm so proud of you."


I glowed. My husband is a loving, generous man, but much of the stuff I do around the house goes generally unnoticed. I didn't start out on this project to gain his praise, but oh, how his small words of encouragement did give me a boost.

I am thinking of encouragement this morning, as we read about Barnabas in the Acts of the Apostles. How important encouragement was for those early Christians, for the disciples going into strange lands and sharing the Good News of the Risen Jesus Christ. Never sure of the reception they would receive, especially after Stephen's execution, these early followers must have been filled with fear. But they pressed on, proclaiming Jesus as Lord. Barnabas, encouraged by the early conversions in Antioch, joined the disciples there, encouraging them further. And it was there, in Antioch, where the disciples "were first called Christians." (Acts 11:26)

One of the first defining elements of a "Christian" is encouragement. I wonder how many of us, today, consider the importance of encouragement in our own practice of the faith.

Am I encouraging to others around me? Do I inspire others with confidence? Do I promote or advance the Gospel teachings? Do I build others up, leading them closer to the kingdom of Heaven?

Just for today, can I find a way to encourage every person I meet? Including myself.

Today's Challenge

From the first reading this morning:

“However, take care and be earnestly on your guard not to forget the things which your own eyes have seen, nor let them slip from your memory as long as you live, but teach them to your children and to your children’s children.” (Dt. 4:9)

What things are you teaching your children? What am I teaching mine?

My kids love to hear stories, especially stories of themselves as babies or DH and me as children. They love the connection, the continuity, and the starring role they (and we) play in these stories. My parents and grandparents told us similar stories when my sisters and I were young.

Family stories tie us together, generation through generation, connecting those of us who have gone before with those still to come. BigBro is named for my grandfather, who died in 1991. Because of all the stories I've told him, BigBro knows a lot about his namesake, and will someday, hopefully, pass along those stories, those memories, of him to generations yet to come.

I ask you again, what are you teaching your children? We have the greatest story ever told... the greatest story of them all. Are you sharing that story with your children? Are you telling them, over and over, in bits and pieces, about the God who loves so deeply that he took on human form, that he lived and breathed and ate and slept and felt hurt and loss and anger and sadness, and eventually he chose to suffer and die all because he loves so deeply? Are you telling your children about the role they play in this story?

Stories tie us together: families, generations, peoples. The stories we share with our children today become the foundation for the adults they will become, and the foundation for the families they will create.

So, here's today's challenge: share our story with your children, with your grandchildren, with your nieces and nephews, over and over, in bits and pieces, until it becomes a part of the fabric of their being.

"Be earnestly on your guard not to forget...nor to let them slip from your memory as long as you live."

Forgiveness

This Lent, I've begun stripping away the layers I've papered onto my soul. Days and months and years of anger, hurt feelings, resentment, disappointment, self-righteousness and even, at times, self-loathing have merged and combined into a thick mass. I hate the design; the pattern makes me ill. It's time for it to go.

This is a painstaking and tedious process. At times, it looks like whole sections will slide right off, and then the paper tears, and I get only one long strip, leaving a wide gash in the layers, revealing a glimpse of what is hidden beneath.

What comes through again and again, in bits and pieces, in strips and clumps, is my need for forgiveness.

Forgiveness for my sins, for my faults, for my failings, for all that I've done and for all the times I've failed to do what I should.

I need forgiveness and mercy, compassion and love.

But that's not all I need. I need to forgive, too.

This morning's words from The Master:

"Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.
Stop judging and you will not be judged.
Stop condemning and you will not be condemned.
Forgive and you will be forgiven." (Lk. 6:36-37)

And I see. I see why stripping these layers is so difficult. The glue I've used to attach them: lack of forgiveness.

I can pick and scrape and yank and tug at the layers all day long, but until I dissolve the glue, they will never come off.

It's up to me. Am I willing to do it?



Are you?

Sackcloth and Ashes

Yesterday morning's reading was from Jonah, about the fast observed by the Ninevites in an attempt to stave off the wrath of God. And I can't help wondering....

I understand the forty-day fast. The Ninevites were big sinners, mired in sinfulness and selfishness. I get that they would do something dramatic to stop ... and, hopefully, change... their behaviors, to turn their hearts toward God.

What I don't really get, though, is the sackcloth and ashes. What is the point of sitting in a pile of ashes for about 6 weeks? Is it particularly uncomfortable? Particularly messy? Wouldn't it be better to spend that same time caring for the sick or the poor? Or reconciling with family and neighbors? Or in worship?

A quick Google search on the topic focuses on the humility expressed by the wearing of sackcloth and the sitting in (or dusting oneself with) ashes.

Humility.

One virtue that I desperately lack, and frequently ignore, is humility. Humility requires me to recognize how little I am, how ineffective, how not-in-charge. From this lens, I can see why I thought the sackcloth and ashes were a waste of time. I would prefer to "prove" my usefulness, my selflessness, my "holiness" even, through acts, rather than acknowledge that I am merely creature, not even close to being in charge.

Humility is uncomfortable; at least, it is for me.

I think about the sackcloth and ashes some more. What would the equivalent be today? Dressing in drab, shapeless clothes? Not washing my hair? Not dyeing my hair? (Now that would be a lesson in humility... having to face all those grays in the mirror!)

Perhaps I could set aside my own agenda. That's what the Ninevites did, right? They stopped all work for 40 days, to repent and fast. I can't do it exactly as they did. I can't stop all work and sit in a pile of dirt. My family needs food, clean clothes, an education, clean bathrooms. They need a wife and a mother.

But, what I can do is set aside my agenda. I can (try my best to) let go of my insatiable need to control every moment of our lives. I can take a deep breath and offer a prayer for humility when my agenda gets sidetracked by squabbling kids, by broken appliances, by crunched schedules, by missed appointments.

I can offer God my quashed frustrations, my swallowed scream, my bitten-back sarcasm as a sign of my repentance.

Patience can be my sackcloth. Kindness and gentleness my ashes.

And these forty days, I can turn my heart toward God once more.

Look Familiar?

From this morning's homily comes a quote from St. John Vianney:

"There is no doubt about it: a person who loves pleasure,

who seeks comfort,

who flies from anything that might spell suffering,

who is over-anxious,

who complains,

who blames

and who becomes impatient at the least little thing which does not go his way--

a person like that is a Christian only in name;

he is only a dishonor to his religion,

for Jesus Christ has said so: 'anyone who wishes to come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross every day of his life, and follow me.'"

(Saint John Vianney, Selected Sermons, Ash Wednesday)

Let's just say that I am way too familiar with way too many of those descriptions. Much work to do....

St. Paul, a Treadmill, and a Lightbulb

Monday was the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. During his homily, Father stressed that the true force of Paul's conversion were the actions that came from it; he didn't simply experience an internal change of heart. St. Paul took that internal change out into the world. We are all called to do the same with our own conversions, even (perhaps especially) the mini-conversions we experience through the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

About an hour after mass had ended, I stepped onto the treadmill. My mind was buzzing with a bunch of different things: the day's to-do list, meal planning, lesson plans, the weather, etc. I plugged my ear buds into my ears, set the speed and started running.

The treadmill is in the corner of my bedroom. There are six recessed lights in the ceiling, and the one just above the treadmill burned out months ago. I can't change it; even with a stepstool, I am too short to reach the bulb. I never seem to have a fresh lightbulb, a stepstool and DH in the bedroom at the same time, and since I don't read on the treadmill, it's seemed like a minor issue, not worth worrying about.

So, to set the scene, it's Monday morning, and I am running on the treadmill, with soft lighting coming from the partly-dimmed remaining lights in the room. I've gotten into a groove physically, gotten through the mental to-do list, and I find my mind wandering back to Father's homily from that morning: more specifically, how am I bringing my conversions out into the world? How can I do better?

I was jolted from my reverie by a bright light. I actually gave a little yelp and turned around quickly, expecting to see one of my children near the lightswitch. No one was there. I couldn't figure out where the brightness was coming from. I kept running (treadmills being what they are), and noticed that my iPod is playing John Mellencamp's "Authority."

I fight authority; authority always wins reverberates in my ears. I run for about another minute before I realize why the room is brighter. The burned-out bulb above me is glowing brightly.

I fight authority; authority always wins repeats again in my ears. I think of St. Paul. I think how this morning, we celebrated the bright light that preceded God's voice in his ears... and the message he needed to hear that day on the road to Damascus.

Now, don't for a moment think that I am confusing myself with St. Paul... but the question begs: is there something here, something in the fighting of authority that I need to take to heart?

Hmmm.... food for prayer, at the very least.

[For the record, after I'd finished running and showered, I noticed that the bulb was burned out again... and it's remained so ever since].

The Good News I Needed to Hear Today

Today's Gospel is Luke 10:38-42... the story of Mary and Martha, aka the basis for the retreat I gave three weeks ago. I smiled this morning when the Deacon began reading those verses which I had gotten to know very well over the past few months. Father referred to our retreat in his homily, and my mind was flooded with memories of the weekend. I was no longer sitting in the chapel listening to the pounding of the rain on the roof. I was at Vision of Peace, soaking up the sunshine, the quiet, the shared prayer and shared experiences. It was amazing... a truly transformative moment in my morning.

And then I left the peace of the chapel.

My week has been off to a rough start. Yesterday was not a good day. I was short-tempered and easily frustrated. My plan was for today to go better. Start off right with mass/prayer and make sure to get my treadmill time. Practice the discipline of patience.

Ohhhh, I have so far to go. Thank God He's not done with me yet.

After screaming at BigBro for wasting time and dragging his feet this morning, I sat down to email my retreatants about the morning's Gospel. Here's what I wrote: Remember "that your attitude is what matters most. Your work is 'diakonia'... ministry."

Yeah, and then I actually hit "send," hypocrite that I am. My attitude is what matters most. Not how quickly we get through our lessons. Not whether or not I get all of the laundry done today. Not even fitting in a grocery trip. It's my attitude that matters... that what I am doing, I am doing in a spirit of service, of love, of charity.

I think, perhaps, this morning's Gospel was there not to remind me of the retreat, but to refocus me. As I said last month, it was Martha's attitude, not her service, that Jesus rebuked. My attitude definitely needs some rebuking this morning, too.

"You are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing."

Tempered, Twisted Steel

Yesterday morning, in his homily, Father quoted a poem by Fr. Gordon Gilsdorf, from the book "Ashes to Easter"

We look for mystic gold
and search for silvered ecstasy;
but saints are made of a
tempered twisted piece of steel

The imagery of this poem caught me off-guard at 6:45 in the morning. I related to it on a visceral level. In so many ways, this poem speaks of me. (Not that I, in any way, mean to imply that I am a saint).

I think of my perfectionism, my constant search for "mystic gold," my striving for that "silvered ecstacy." I think of how often I get frustrated with all that lacks in me.

I look for the same things in my spiritual life. I look for those moments of deep union with God, those glorious consolations He provides from time to time. I want my prayer time to be peaceful, fruitful, focused. I want to see myself growing in holiness, becoming more Christ-like in my thoughts and actions, loving deeper, forgiving more.

But what I see most often resembles twisted steel. I see deep frustrations, quick impatience, and lots of little moments of selfishness. I see prayer time that is interrupted, unfocused, sometimes downright chaotic. I look deeply at myself and see all the places where I am lacking, where I am broken.

I read the poem again.

One little word stands out this time: tempered. The steel is not simply twisted. Not simply malformed. It is tempered. It is strengthened and "toughened." According to Wikipedia, steel is tempered to transform brittle materials into a form that is "strong and ductile." Strong I get. But ductile I look up... here, it refers to malleability, the property of being able to stretch, take on new shapes, but not to the point of fracturing.

I read the poem again.

This time, I focus not on where I am lacking, not on the failure to reach the "mystic gold" and the "silvered ecstacy." Those moments of peace, consolation, achievement are wonderful... but fleeting. My mind lingers over "tempered, twisted piece of steel."

The process of tempering requires heat, delicate balance and control. It is a process that is imposed upon the steel by outside sources. Someone must control the process, must watch over carefully to ensure the balance is met, so that the end result is a strong, useful piece of metal.

I am the twisted piece of steel. I am not doing the tempering. I am not controlling the process, ensuring that a delicate balance is met. But I can see the things that are tempering me. I can see the heat that is applied, the careful combination of experiences and challenges that are uniquely mine.

And I will trust that He who is controlling this process will guide me into a form that is "strong and ductile."

image source

Doubt vs. Faith

A few weeks ago, during a quiet communion service, I listened to a homily on doubt and faith. The Deacon purported that doubt and faith were opposites, that if we have a true faith, we will never doubt. I wanted to argue with him. (That happens to me in this little chapel sometimes... it's small, intimate, and without the formality of "church," and I have to remind myself that it's a homily, not a discussion). I believe that the opposite of faith is certainty, not doubt. If I am really certain, then there is no need for faith. If my faith is really true, it can withstand doubts and questions. Doubt does not weaken my faith, it strengthens it.


I didn't give his homily much more thought until this week. The four facilitators and two deacons met to discuss the first few weeks of the Bible study. During our meeting, two of the facilitators made comments suggesting that they were not encouraging the sort of discussion, questioning, and deeper thought that I was seeing in my sessions. (For example, we had a discussion last Monday about the creation stories in Genesis... how much is "fact," how much is "fiction," and in what ways do the fictions take away from or build up the facts).

The Deacon running the program, the same Deacon who gave the homily a few weeks ago, made a point of saying that we didn't want anyone leaving the Bible study questioning their faith. I'm not sure that I agree. I've spent a reasonable amount of time with this program, and I think it is, overall, a good one. But there are places where the program differs from the Catechism. Nothing schismatic or dogmatic, but just a general stretching of a definition here and there to make the overall theme of the program more easily accessible. I don't believe that questioning the premise of this program, or the tenets of the Catholic faith, calls the strength of my faith into question. I can hold the Creed deep in my heart, and still ask what each piece of it means... how it applies in my life... is it really true.

When I was 14 years old, and in eighth grade, I asked my Catholic school teacher, a former nun, how we knew that God existed. I was a quiet, studious, adult-pleasing child. I was never in trouble, and didn't make a habit of questioning authority. (Something I've outgrown in recent years... thankfully). I had attended this small school for 9 years, and was known to be a good and obedient child. My question was sincere, and I asked it expecting the same sort of intelligent and sincere response I had always received in school.

My teacher responded by scolding me. How dare I ask that question? What was I trying to do, questioning God's existence? I could just sit inside during recess and think about my misbehavior.

I was hurt, shamed. I was not used to being scolded in front of the class. But even more than that, I was confused. My question had been sincere. I had expected a real answer. If God is real, surely she... my teacher, a God-loving woman and former nun, should be able to help me understand.

I thought a lot about her response over the next few weeks and years. The only thing that made sense to my adolescent mind was that I had figured out the "secret." Her response reminded me of the response my parents had one December, when I approached them with suspicions that some elements of our family's celebration were, in fact, completely fictional. They affirmed my revelation, and then threatened me with a very sad Christmas morning if I ever shared that knowledge with my younger sisters. "They are entitled to enjoy the magic for a while longer. You better not ruin it for them."

My teacher's response was eerily similar. Her anger made no sense... unless I'd stumbled onto the "big secret." Could it be that God really didn't exist? That he was just some fiction created by adults so that kids could enjoy the "magic" of childhood? And I wasn't supposed to figure it out just yet, but I did... and what if everyone else figured it out, now that I'd asked the question? How dare I ruin it for everyone else?

I never really stopped believing in God, but I did stop trusting adults to provide me with real answers. When I walked away from my faith in college, I know that the seeds of doubt instilled by my eighth grade teacher played some (small) part.

When I came home to my faith a few years ago, I spent a lot of time in prayer, trying to figure out why and how I had left the Catholic Church. I kept coming back to that day in eighth grade. All of the doubts about the validity of the Church, the Creed, the Trinity and God collided with that memory. If a sincere question from a teenager can take down God, he mustn't be much of a God. I became really angry with this teacher. It took me a while to find peace and finally forgive her. But, in the process, I promised myself that my children will always be allowed to ask sincere questions, and I will always try to answer them honestly and sincerely.

So, as I sat at that meeting the other day, and heard fear that the Bible Study would cause people to question their faith, little red flags went up in my mind. I've spent a lot of time questioning my faith and the validity of the Church in the past few years. Every single time, my love and my awe for God has deepened. This Deacon has stated repeatedly that he hopes this Bible study will awaken a love for Sacred Scripture -- and for God -- in our parish.

If we approach the sessions fearful and discouraging of questions, how can the program serve to do anything other than introduce fear, doubt and distrust? If we believe, in the deepest parts of our hearts, that the faith we hold so dear is true, then surely we can handle any questions that may come up.

Personally, I'd be worried if people didn't ask questions.

And it Was Good

The readings yesterday and today are from the beginning of Genesis, the story of creation. Yesterday morning, Father talked about the poetic structure of this story: God said. And so it happened. God saw that it was good. He mentioned that a core Catholic belief is here: that all of God's creation is fundamentally good. We may be wounded by sin, but we are fundamentally good.

Yesterday afternoon, I facilitated the first Bible study session. My parish has four identical sessions running each week, each with a different facilitator. We have about 120 people signed up for the program. I had 32 people at my session yesterday.

I am disappointed with my performance as facilitator yesterday. From the outside, it may have seemed ok, but I am disappointed with myself. I had prepared at length for the material. I knew what I was going to say, when we would break into small groups, etc. I had a to-the-minute schedule, and for the most part, we stuck to it. We started on time and ended on time, covering all of the required material. As I said, from the outside, it likely (hopefully) appeared successful.

But what I hadn't adequately prepared for was my student population. I have years of experience facilitating training programs, and am very comfortable in this setting. But the time of this session (in the middle of a Monday afternoon) meant that my clientele was from a completely different demographic than I am used to teaching. This group was predominantly made up of senior citizens. I whipped through a brief explanation of the four-color charts and graphs, not realizing that two tables were filled with blank stares. I spoke too quickly and too quietly to be fully understood. At the end of the session, I shared my honest assessment of where I fell short with the Deacon and another facilitator. Hopefully, they can take my failures and make the necessary adjustments in the remaining sessions this week.

Yesterday afternoon, I was feeling pretty badly about it. I know that there were some confused faces in the crowd. I did my best to get everyone back on track before the session ended, but I fear that I may not have reached everyone. My perfectionism reared its ugly head, and I got caught up in all of the "would-haves" and "should-haves" and "wished I'd haves."

I mentioned this in an email with a friend. This morning, she wrote back, kind words recognizing my perfectionism and acknowledging my disappointment. Then she added this: "I know you would like to have done better, but truly, what you are doing is GOOD." And the words from Genesis came back to me. God saw that it was good. He didn't see that it was perfect. Perfect wasn't necessary for God (though certainly, it would have been possible for God to make creation perfect). No, it was not perfect; it was good. And that was enough for God.

Can I let it be enough for me, too?

Attitude Adjustment

I don't think it's any secret that I struggle with exercising. I mentioned here and here that Father asked me to change the way I look at exercise, and to view it as an act of love for God and my family. I haven't really given that an honest try.

I hate exercising. There have been times in my life when I've gotten into a decent exercise routine, and I felt good in the midst of it, but exercise has never been something I've done readily or willingly.

Last Tuesday, I had a meeting with Pastor, and took the opportunity to tack on confession to the end of it. I had to admit to him that I still had not done the penance Father had assigned me before Christmas... to commit to a regular exercise plan. (Three very reluctant, 20-minute jaunts on the treadmill in 3 1/2 weeks does not a "regular" plan make). We talked about the where's and why-not's, and he asked me to take this to prayer, and to consider exercising in the smallest possible increments. "Jen, could you try to do just 10 minutes a day?" Of course I could. I could do more than that. I just don't want to.

But, having had two confessions in a month that ended up being about my not exercising, I very begrudgingly, and with a nasty attitude, climbed on the treadmill Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Each time I sludged through my twenty minutes, hopping off the treadmill the second the timer hit 20:00. On Friday, I got off the treadmill, filled with annoyance. There has to be some way to exercise and not have it be such a miserable chore. How can I get myself to feel better about it?

As I got ready for my day, it hit me. I don't have to feel like exercising. I just have to do it. Love is an action, remember? It's not an emotion. It doesn't matter how I feel. Just as Father told me when I was in the midst of a spiritual dry spell and just not "feeling it" in prayer, it doesn't matter how I feel. It's the act that matters. Whether prayer, exercise, or any number of other things I do (laundry, cooking, groceries, etc), the act is what matters.

Yesterday morning, in mass, the second reading, Paul's letter to the Corinthians, hit me square between the eyes.

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you,
whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?
For you have been purchased at a price. (1 Cor. 6:19-20)

Whoa. Talk about feeling convicted. Father's homily focused on this reading, and he extended Paul's warnings against immoral use of the body beyond the original sexual intent to poor stewardship of our bodies through overeating, failure to exercise, abuse of drugs and alcohol, and even allowing anger to fester into rage. I squirmed in the pew, feeling very much that he was holding up a mirror. Yep, that was me he was talking about yesterday morning.

I came home and re-read Paul's letter. I prayed a bit, journaled a bit, and then got on the treadmill. I've had the worst attitude about this. I treat my body like crap, because it's my body, and so I can. Except that it's not my body. It's God's body. He merely lent it to me to use. He asked me to be the steward of this body, to care for it during the time I am here on earth.

I think about when I borrowed a friend's special crystal platter. How did I act then? Was I careless, thoughtless, and lazy? Why do I not treat this body God lent me with as much gentleness and care as the platter my friend lent me?

I got on the treadmill yesterday and prayed. Again this morning, after mass and breakfast, I got back on the treadmill. I prayed some more. I am not going to focus on scales, measurements, or goals. This is not about losing weight, fitting into a certain size, looking a certain way. This is about caring for my body. This is about loving God, and showing Him my love by treating this body as gently, carefully, and lovingly as I would a friend's treasured platter.

Touch

As a mother of three small children, I find myself saying variations of "don't touch" often throughout my day and week.

"Yuck, don't touch that." "Careful, don't touch." "Put that down." "Don't pick that up."

And often, when I've been ignored or a split-second too late, I follow with, "Go wash your hands." "Here, let me give you some hand sanitizer." "Wash up, now."

In this morning's Gospel reading, Jesus reached out and touched a leper to heal him. Now, being God, Jesus could have healed him without touching him. He healed many people from afar, often sending people away with the assurance that the loved one on their deathbed at home had been healed by their faith alone. So it was not necessary for Jesus to touch this leper in order to heal him. But he touched him anyway.

Again and again in his ministry, Jesus used touch as a means of conveying his love and acceptance. He touched others, and he allowed others to touch him. Father pointed out in his homily that the Church continues this tradition of touch as a physical expression of Christ's Grace and Love through the Sacraments. We use physical items -- bread, wine, oil, water -- to convey the grace of the Lord. And, we often use touch. Touch is a key element in the Sacrament of the Annointing of the Sick. Some priests also use touch during the Absolution in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. In fact, I find that the Sacrament feels more healing to me those times when the priest lays his hands on my head as he absolves me of my sins. It is through the physicality of the Sacrament that I most feel the presence of the Holy Spirit.

When I warn my children not to touch things, it is usually to protect them from some disease or harm that I can see, which, often, they cannot. I want to keep them healthy, pure, free from illness and waste.

How amazing and humbling is it that our Lord, who can see all that is unhealthy, impure, sick and wasteful inside us chooses not to stay away, but instead to reach out and touch us... and through that touch, to offer us healing, grace, peace, and love.

Love is an Action

This week, Father's early morning homilies have been variations on the same theme: in the Bible, love is not sentimentality, not emotion. Love is an action.

A few weeks ago, he asked me to change how I viewed exercise. He suggested that instead of seeing exercise as a chore, that I view exercise as an act of Love for God, my family, and myself. I've been praying a lot about that concept these past few weeks, and this week I dusted off the treadmill and got back on. And every morning, I've heard more about Love as an action.

At the same time, I am really struggling in the Spiritual Director role for our CRHP (Christ Renews His Parish) team. My heart is not in it, and I am having a hard time even getting my head in it. Last night, after the meeting, I stopped in the chapel to pray before going home. Again, I asked the Lord why He picked me for this role. Again, I had no discernible response... until this morning, when Father spoke again about Love being an action. If love is not an emotion, a feeling, then it doesn't matter if my "heart" is in the Spiritual Director role. I was asked to do this role. I said yes. Now, I need to act.

When Jesus told us to "love one another," he wasn't referring to our emotions, though I am sure he wouldn't mind if we felt love for our neighbors. He said, "Love one another, as I have loved you." Jesus didn't get caught up in feelings, in emotion. And I don't recall any part of the Gospels where he worried that his "heart" just wasn't in the teaching or healing that day. He loved through gentle healing, through patient teaching, through forgiving, through righteous anger at times, and always through prayer. There was nothing passive about Jesus' love. There is nothing passive about Jesus' love.

What about my love?

S-T-R-E-T-C-H-I-N-G

Yesterday, in the Adoration Chapel, I spent a long time praying about the Spiritual Director role for the next CRHP (Christ Renews His Parish) Team. I never wrote about how I came to take on this role. Because I am on the CRHP Continuation Committee, I was running several of the post-Retreat formation meetings to set the new team. The final evening, the Evening of Discernment, came, and I left my house with every intention of having this be my final commitment to CRHP. Truthfully, I was getting a little worn out from the CRHP commitments of the past few years.

About halfway through the meeting, during some quiet, prayerful time of personal discernment of the new team members, I very clearly heard "Spiritual Director" in my head. I immediately dismissed the phrase. (This was right in the midst of the DH's job layoff uncertainties). The phrase persisted, and as I began to "argue" in my head, I repeatedly heard the response: "TRUST."

The time came for the group to share the results of their discernments. No one discerned the Spiritual Director role, and I began to hear "Speak Up!" in my head. Again, I argued. (I am so much more Zechariah than Mary!) I refused to speak up, despite the persistence of the voice in my head. The meeting ended and I began to clean up the room. Almost immediately, I was approached by a woman who said that she was getting a really strong feeling that I was supposed to be the Spiritual Director for this team. I began to cry. A few minutes later, another woman came over to say goodbye, and told me that she had been hearing my name and Spiritual Director in her head for the last 2o minutes. I turned to the Tabernacle and said, "Fine. You win. I'll do it." I walked over to the Lay Director and told her that she had found her Spiritual Director.

I immediately felt peace with that decision, and though I was a little worried about DH's response (it is a big time commitment), he was completely and totally supportive. All was well, and I became excited about this opportunity.

But in the past few days, I've finally had a chance to look at the manual and see exactly what it means to be the Spiritual Director... and I've become overwhelmed. This is a big job. And an important job. And way beyond my abilities/knowledge/experience/readiness. I feel completely inadequate for the role.

So, yesterday, I took those concerns to Jesus. I asked him why He had chosen me. I told him I didn't think I could do the job. I didn't get any response, no words resonating in my head again. Just deep silence.

This morning, I woke up early. I've been sleeping in while DH is on break, and have been going to 8:15 mass. But I was up early this morning, and it just made sense to go to 6:30 mass. So, I got up and went.

Father's homily was about the martyrs we honor in these first Octave days of Christmas. He told us that we are all called to stretch ourselves for the faith. We are called to constant conversion, growth, and to be pushing ourselves outside our comfort zones to be more and more like Christ in each moment of each day. To live in safety, security, and same-ness is not to live as a Christian. Even if we do not feel ready or able, Christ calls us to stretch and grow all the same. If we do the work, He will provide what is lacking.

Just as He provides the answers I need.

Christmas Eve Eve Quick Takes

Hello, World! Man, I've missed you, but it's been so crazy I've barely had time to shower. (Oh, wait... I still haven't showered yet today!) Here's my attempt at catching up a bit.

1. DH's JOB IS SAFE!!!! (If there is anyone out there in the world who reads my blog and didn't know that, I so deeply apologize!) After getting the good news last Wednesday, I collapsed into a restless, but much needed sleep, only to awake on Thursday to realize that Christmas was in one week, we were hosting 75-100 people for our Annual Open House on Saturday, and I had no cookies left, no groceries bought, no real accounting of what gifts I had and what still remained to be bought (the downside of finishing nearly all my shopping before Advent). I panicked. I admit it. It happens to the best of us. Heck, even Karen panicked! But that explains my week long absence, in part at least.

   
   

2. The Christmas Letter is coming... it is, I promise. It's written and printed. Now, I just need to address the envelopes and jot the little personal notes on about half of them. It will get done. After all, Christmas hasn't even started yet... I still have 2 whole days til Christmas starts. (Yeah, that's right... that's my answer this year... you'll get your Christmas letter during Christmas, not Advent!)

   
   

3. Here is an Amazing Homily Reflection on Motherhood that my dear friend delivered at mass on Sunday. If you have a few minutes, please pop over and take a listen. I promise it will change the way you look at pregnancy, motherhood, and the consecration. If you are a Catholic/Christian mother (or you know a Catholic/Christian mother), it is a must-listen.

4. Our Annual Open House was a BLAST!!!! It started about 2 pm and didn't wind up until 11pm. We had over 100 people stop by. The kids were moving in packs. It was a crazy, chaotic, friend-and-blessing-filled day. We didn't get a chance to do any clean-up on Saturday night, and we had to get out to mass by 8:10 on Sunday morning. I exclaimed when we rushed downstairs on Sunday morning that this must be what a frat house looks like on Sunday mornings. My husband, the former fraternity president, replied, "Wouldn't know what it looked like at 8am, but this is pretty much how it looked when we got up around 2pm."

   
   

5. My parents and niece are here. They arrived safe and sound yesterday evening, to the great excitment of my kids. It was especially nice last night to get to celebrate my mom's birthday with her. We haven't been together for her birthday for 4 years. (Well, technically, her birthday was Sunday, but this was close enough for us!)

6. I can't believe LilBro will be 3 in less than one week. I keep snuggling him close, and thinking about how worried I was three years ago, that he would surprise us in the next few days, and I would miss Christmas at home with BigBro and Princess. He didn't. He stayed all snuggly and warm inside me until the 29th, when he slipped out of my abdomen and into my arms in just under 10 minutes. I can't seem to figure out how three years evaporated so quickly!

Serving Where I Am

A few weeks ago, while I was on my personal retreat, I prayed a lot for help in knowing how to take the peace I had found at the Shrine back into my everyday life. The last thing I did before heading home was attend mass in the Shrine chapel. The priest gave a homily that day about being a servant... that each of us is called to serve others, and that we need to serve with a happy and humble heart. He cautioned us not to look for rewards for our service in this life; our rewards await us in the eternal life.

I took a few deep breaths in the quiet between the end of the homily and the beginning of the Prayers of the Faithful. I knew, in my heart, that this was the answer I had been seeking. I've tried my best to take this "happy, humble servant" attitude home with me, and to put it into practice in my everyday roles as wife, mother, friend, daughter, parishioner.

I've watched it work. It's really quite amazing. On the days (or, at least, in the moments) when I remember that I am, first and foremost, a servant of God, things go better. I get less frustrated. I can handle the delays, surprises, and accidents better. And on the days (or in the moments) when I forget that, when I put myself and my desires first, I am more frustrated, more impatient, less loving, less kind.

Yesterday morning, I woke, after not sleeping well all night, in a state of panic. There is so much to do... and Thanksgiving is in just a few days. We have guests arriving on Wednesday. We are hosting 15 for dinner on Thursday. The house is a wreck. Groceries need to be bought (especially the turkey, which needs days to defrost). Laundry needs to be done. (Doesn't it always!) I panicked, and started to freak out in DH's direction. He was calm, gentle, and reminded me that I was not in this alone. He helped me take a deep breath, make out a list of what needed to be done, and then showed me how we would split the duties to get it all done.

This morning, I again woke in a panic. We had accomplished a good amount yesterday, but not as much as I'd hoped, and today was jam-packed as well. The stress was rising. Again, good and wise DH came to the rescue with some helpful suggestions. I headed out to 6:30 mass, feeling the stress tight in my chest. I knelt in the church, trying to slow my breathing, and prayed for peace in my heart. I prayed for the grace to know that all will get done, and to not be so impatient and crabby in the doing of it.

A short time later, Father stepped down into the center aisle to deliver his homily. He began talking about the Vietnamese martyrs we honor today, and talked about how each of us is called to be a "white martyr"... to serve with the love of Christ in our given vocations. He looked right at me, nodded, and pointed out that if we are wives and mothers, we are called to serve our families with joy and humility. That is all that Christ asks of us.

And, as I felt peace once again enter my heart, I was reminded, again, why daily mass is so very necessary for me.

Ego vs. the Holy Spirit

I can't seem to figure this one out. It is sticking in my head this week. I've asked any number of people: DH, friends, Pastor, God, my mother. How do you tell the difference between your ego and promptings from the Holy Spirit?
Yesterday, a lot of what was going on inside me came out. I gave a talk at my parish's 6th Women's Christ Renews His Parish (CRHP) retreat. It was my third retreat in a row giving a talk, and it's something that I enjoy a lot. I grow a great deal in the process of meditating and praying about a topic, and then writing and editing my talk. And I love giving the talks. It always begins with the entire room standing and singing a blessing song over the speaker. I love that feeling; it is deeply Spirit-filled.

Anyway, as awkward and shy as I can be at any given, off-the-cuff moment, I am totally different when giving the talks. I am calm. I am confident. I usually have the talk mostly memorized, so I make frequent eye contact, and often add in extemporaneous comments to spark some humor and laughter. I try to entertain, not just share my story.

I have a talent for this. I don't say that lightly, and not in a bragging way. I mean it matter-of-factly... this is an area in which I have a talent. And I guess others have noticed, since I was invited to fill empty slots at the past two retreats. The team from this weekend's talk had to do a bit of arm-twisting to get me to agree.

But when I was driving home last night, I started thinking more about how good it feels to get the affirmations from the women after my talks. How good it feels to hear that my words touched someone. How good it feels to see the crowd reacting with laughter and tears at the appropriate moments. And I started to wonder if I was doing this for the right reasons. Am I agreeing to talk at these retreats because I really have something important to share... some information that can lead others closer to Christ? Or am I speaking because I like the affirmation? Because I like the ego boost?

Or is it a little of both?

And if it is a little of both... is that ok?

This morning, Pastor gave a homily about the servant who hid the one talent, trying to be practical and "safe." He told us that he understands this desire for security, especially in this current economic crisis. But Jesus told this parable to exhort us against choosing security over risk. Pastor said that Jesus wants us to use our talents, to take risks, to be bold, to speak truthfully and honestly and openly.

I nodded a lot during his homily. I kept thinking back to the previous afternoon. I was quite bold, very truthful, and more honest than I had ever been in a public speech before. OK. That was God's work.

But I will admit: there was an element of "showing off." One of the women on the retreat had never heard me speak before, and she and I are competitive with each other. She is also a writer, and she seems to make a point of drawing attention to her writing successes while diminishing any positive feedback I might get with an "oh, yeah, I've been told that, too. It's very satisfying, isn't it?" So, I admit, I was aiming to knock this one out of the park.

Which brings me back to the ego question; clearly my ego played some role in my talk yesterday. Does that even matter? Is it possible to completely separate my ego from my faith story? The women on the retreat did not know about this underlying, unspoken competition. If one of them was touched by my words and grows deeper in relationship with Christ as a result of meditating on them, does that mitigate the egotism involved in creating and giving the talk? Or is the power of my talk lessened by the competition and ego that underlay it all?

How can you tell the difference between ego and the Holy Spirit?

"Real" Catholics

This post may end up being really disjointed. There have been a bunch of similar themes floating around in my head for the past few weeks.... ever since the retreat, actually. And it all seems to be coming to head this weekend.

Our Parish is a small-ish parish... we have between 800-900 active families. It is just over 50 years old, and we still have some original parishoners. I would say that it is fairly evenly spread between senior citizens and young/school-age families. We are a moderate Catholic parish. We are most definitely not "liberal"... our two priests and two deacons are all faithful to the Magisterium and obedient to the Archbishop. But neither are we a very "conservative" parish. No one wears a mantilla. The choir sings both traditional, organ-based songs, and modern, Christian-rock songs. We occasionally have bongos at 10:30 Sunday mass.

To say that we fit in here would be accurate. In fact, if I look at all the areas of my life, the best "fit" is at the parish. It's not perfect, of course. Nothing is. The parish has a school. We homeschool. If my kids attended the parish school, we would likely bridge that last little gap, and it would be a near-perfect fit. But, as it is, the fit at our parish is as good as I think I'm going to get.

But here's the thing. There is a group within our parish (actually, there is a group within the Catholic Church... and it has offspring within our parish) that is pushing us toward a fundamentalist view of Catholicism. This was blatantly apparent to me on the retreat in September. The retreat was sponsored by a fundamentalist Catholic group. That is actually not a problem. I knew that when I signed up for the retreat... and I signed up anyway.

The problem is that this group defines Catholicism in their own narrow view. If you do not meet their narrow definition, you are not a "real" Catholic. I ran into this directly on the retreat. I had had the impression of judging and "score-carding" going on among the women. But it was confirmed for me on Sunday afternoon. I had been the lector for Sunday morning mass. During lunch, one of the women stopped me and told me I had done a good job. She asked if I was a lector at my parish. I said, no, but that I go to daily mass. Just by paying attention, I knew what to do. Her jaw fell open, and she said, "You go to daily mass?" The judgment in her voice was not a mere impression... it was plain as could be. Yes, me... I go to daily mass... even though I don't wear a mantilla, and I hold hands when I pray the Lord's Prayer, and, and, and .... whatever other bad marks I had gotten on her scorecard.

What is really disturbing me is that this same, narrow view of Catholicism is permeating my parish. Yes, the group is really small... but they are vocal. And the worst part is all of the judging that is going on. It's not just that some people pray one way and others another way. It's like going back to the Pharisees... all these silly rules that must be followed exactly, completely and totally right... or else it's all for naught.

And that is not the point. Not even a little bit. I don't go to mass to impress some other person with my holiness. I go to mass to worship God and receive Jesus in the Eucharist. My prayer posture, so long as it is not disrespectful nor disruptive, should not matter at all. My clothes, so long as they are not disrespectful, should not matter at all.

The judging doesn't stop there, though. I have three children very close in age. There are 3-1/2 years between BigBro and LilBro, with Princess in the middle. LilBro is almost 3. On more than one occasion, someone has assumed that we are contracepting. Because if I were a "real" Catholic, I would have had at least one (if not two) more children. My fertility is proven. The only explanation for no more babies must be that I am one of "those" Catholics... the ones who cherry-pick which rules to follow, not a "real" Catholic.

As if there is only one way. Maybe it's just all the readings from Paul's letters in the daily masses, but it seems like this battle was already fought in the early Church. The Gentiles worshipped differently than the Jewish Christians. And Paul said it didn't matter... following man-made rules didn't matter. Heck, even following Mosaic law didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was following Jesus Christ. And His teachings couldn't have been more clear... you need only look at today's Gospel for that.

"You shall love the Lord, your God,with all your heart,with all your soul,and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments." (Mt. 22:36-40)

It's really very simple. But it's not easy at all.

Thoughts on Stewardship

Last night, I sat shivering in the field behind our Parish Center as the sun went down and darkness descended on the field. I kept wishing I had thought to bring a blanket. More than once, I thought of marching across the field and telling Princess we had to go... I was cold, it was dark, and she is 4 years old. Why were we still at soccer practice?

But as I sat there, squinting in the darkness, trying to make out Princess' form (nearly invisible, clad in black sweatpants and a purple sweatshirt), I heard the coach exclaim:

"Excellent! You got it, [Princess]! That was perfect. Now, do another one, just like that last one!"

I beamed with pride. That was my little Princess Coach was applauding. And my thoughts went back to something Father said during his homily that morning. He's been working on the theme of "stewardship" all week: specifically, that we do not "own" our lives, but are merely stewards of these lives God has given to us, without our asking for it. It is our responsibility to be good stewards of our lives, and to use the gifts God has given us to help others.

As I sat there, warmed somewhat by my pride in Princess' accomplishments, I realized that, as a parent, I am even more blessed. God has given me not just my own life, but these three other lives as well. I do not get to be their steward forever... but for these fleeting years, DH and I get to care for, guide, and treasure these lives. We are the ones who teach them how to discover their gifts. We teach them how to use their gifts wisely and well. And in doing that, we are learning more about our own strengths and weaknesses. In parenting, DH and I are growing spiritually as much as (if not more than) the kids are growing physically.

Stewardship, by definition, includes some measure of sacrifice. The traditional phrasing we hear at mass is "time, talent and treasure." Last night, my sacrifice didn't really fall into any of those categories. It was more a sacrifice of physical comfort. But the joy-filled grin on Princess' face as she ran across the field to me when practice was (finally) over more than made up for the physical discomfort of an hour in the cold.

God is always working to purify us, to refine us. Sometimes that happens in a fiery furnace of difficult times. Sometimes it occurs in a dark field on a cold October evening.

Peace in the Family

Paraphrased from Father's homily this morning: St Paul's Letter to the Ephesians, Ch 2, brings us hope... hope for unity in the Body of Christ. But we need to start with our families. If we can bring peace in our families, we can bring peace in our world. We need to start where we are, in our homes and families, to bring about change.

I am talking on the topic of Christian Community at our parish's CRHP retreat next month. I touch on some of the same ideas in my talk. Change -- real change, not just the political promises of the presidential campaigns -- happens from the bottom up. It is regular people, making choices to affect their families, communities, cities, and states that make the real change in this world.

Pastor and I had a conversation about this a few weeks ago. In a very rare moment where he had time to talk, and no one else was around, we got into politics. He and I both are less than thrilled by the choices we have this year. We are both pro-life. We have similar positions on other political issues. But the choice for me is one between moral idealism and political realities. I told him that I believed neither man would profoundly change the world for the better. It seems that political leaders never do. When you look at those who've changed the world for the better, it is always, nearly always, simple people, in simple ways. As Blessed Teresa of Calcutta said, "Do small things with great Love."

If we all did that -- even just for today -- imagine the difference in the world.