Happy Heavenly Homecoming, Birthday Twin

"Well done, good and faithful servant."

- Matthew 25:21

     Phone calls from my AE always warrant one of two things: either a scathingly brilliant idea or news from the homefront. On Wednesday night, it was both. It was that conversation that prompted me to decide to go home earlier in the weekend than I had planned. You see, I was going home on Saturday to help my sister shop for a prom dress. But as I hung up the phone, I decided I needed to go home Friday. Sometimes news from the home front is good, but this time it was hard news to deliver. My dear Sister Michael was preparing to go home to meet her Beloved and I needed to say goodbye. 

     So, after skillfully packing boxes upon boxes of chapel decorations into the closet with Sister Cathy, I packed the car and headed home in the pouring rain. I have two ways I could go home: the PA Turnpike or I-76 straight into Center City. On occasion, when I feel like taking the scenic route (and when I don't have toll money...) I take 76. I did just that. Of course, anyone from the Philadelphia area knows that no matter what time of day one decides to travel on 76, there is always traffic. Before I lift, Sister Cathy suggested I put on some peaceful music and drive slowly home (she knows I sometimes have a lead foot) and I did just that. Driving slowly was out of my control. It took me a little longer than usual but for once, the traffic didn't prompt the impatient driver in me. Instead, I focused on getting home to Sister Michael. 

      I went straight to the convent. I didn't even stop at my house. I checked in with Sister Josepha and soon enough found myself on the second floor. God has perfect planning in the sense that I arrived right at dinner time and the sisters were all getting ready. Therefore, I got stopped by a table of my crazy nunnies. I'm always on God's time and so I knew, my visit with these sisters was all part of God's plan. After at least a half hour of conversation with them, I gave a gentle knock on Sister Michael's door. A cheerful "come on in" beckoned to me from inside. I smiled when I saw Sister Regina sitting quietly with Sister Michael. They had told me she was preparing to go Home to Jesus all week and that she was sure today was the day. I knew otherwise. 

      It seems against my personality, I know, but I sat quietly with Sister Michael for about an hour. I prayed a finger rosary (you know, the best way to keep time and keep quiet in grade school...praying on your fingers) with her and occasionally, she would burst awake with a conversation starter for me. She asked me about school, student teaching and the most important question: what about your students inspired you the most? I think I lulled her back to sleep with my litany of ways my students inspired me. Every so often, she would muster a "mhmm" and I would laugh then keep talking until I knew she was asleep. Then I'd go back to praying for her. 

      As I watched her sleep, I realized that watching someone die peacefully, is like watching a baby sleeping. Both are so very close to God that on their faces is ultimate peace. I kept gentle watch over my sister and imagined the peace she would soon experience. I asked Jesus to take her by the hand gently and let her go through the gates of Heaven with no problem. I prayed and watched for an hour. At 5:45, I blew her a kiss and told her I loved her, knowing that it could quite possibly be the last time I ever saw her. 

      As my life would have it, as I was trying to leave the convent quietly (shocking, I know), I got snagged at the door by another one of the sisters and invited to stay for the presentation given by Mother Jana on the international missions of the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth. The room was full of Sisters I loved so dearly and as I sat there, I realized how long it had been since I had been home to see any of them. I didn't even stop over for a visit at Christmas time. I tried to think back and couldn't remember the last time I saw any of them. I had stayed away for so long but I was still welcomed home with open arms. 

      The next morning, I went back to the convent for Mass and later in the day, I went one more time to see Sister Michael. This time, her sister was there, a few other sisters and some family members. I didn't want to overwhelm her, so I stood close to the door, said my final goodbye to her and once again blew her a kiss. My sister was with me, and part of me felt as if she knew how hard it was for me to lose a friend. 

       I had known Sister Michael for so many years...she lived at the convent I frequented so often after school on the weekends and during the summer. She had her favorite spot in the community room, which just happened to be my favorite spot, too. We always had a gentle conversation when I was there for a visit, and she always had a hug for me. But what bonded us together was our birthday. The very first conversation I ever had with Sister Michael, we discovered that we were birthday twins, both of us born on May 9th. Not the same year, of course, but we were birthday twins none the less. I couldn't help but smile remembering all the conversations I had had with Sister Michael as I rode the elevator down with my Sister. 

       As I drove home to school that night, I went back over the last conversation I had with Sister Michael and all her "mhmms." I had been crying but suddenly, I burst into laughter. Poor girl was just trying to sleep. I do the same thing to my roommate when she talks to me as I'm trying to fall asleep. I give little affirmative "mhmms" until I fall asleep. But that wasn't the end of it. I remembered how every time I was over for supper during college, we would always go upstairs for recreation. While I would be playing some card game with some sisters, Sister Michael and a few other sisters would be watching the news and then jeopardy. Without fail, Sister Michael would sit in the same seat and slowly fall asleep. Her head would bob a little until it eventually fell on her chest. If someone was talking to her, she would answer with words and then eventually "mhmms." Of course, the true test of whether or not she was sleeping was if she started to snore. No one ever woke her up though, she always woke herself up and eventually go upstairs to her room for the night. I always found this to be the funniest thing and often would giggle every time this happened. I guess it's because I knew that one day, I would do the same. Now, I know for sure that I do the same thing. Gosh, I even fall asleep reading at work in the same fashion: heading bobbing and then out. I laughed a good portion of the way home after remembering those moments of slumber and "mhmms." 

        The next few hours were spent waiting to here from anyone back home. The phone call (and texts and emails) didn't come until the middle of our 7:00 PM mass on Sunday night. I had spent the hour before Mass  sitting in Chapel, glasses off and head bobbing on occasion. I kept a prayer vigil with Sister Michael. I found out later that she had gone home to God during that time during which I was praying for her. I know for sure that God welcomed her home just as the sisters welcomed me home Friday night. She went peacefully, surrounded by family and her sisters. I thanked God that her suffering was over and shed the reasonable tears. However, I couldn't help but rejoice. I gained another saint in Heaven and she is now living it up with her Beloved. Lucky girl. Happy Heavenly Homecoming, Birthday twin. I hope I make it to as many birthdays as you did. Keep watch over us, Saint Sister Michael! 

Rebel With A Cause: In Memoriam

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels.

The troublemakers. The round pegs in square holes. 

The ones who see things differently. They change things.

People who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, 

are the ones who usually do."

- Apple, Inc. 

Please indulge in some of my creative writing inspired by Sister Peggy's class today. I think you might enjoy it :)

They'd call me little miss sunshine; in grade school, it was little miss perfect. So what if I had my shoes always tied, my socks always pulled up, my skirt always at my knee? I was far from perfect, but everyone had this idea of me as a goody-two shoes. I was lucky if I could ever find two shoes in my room. My favorite color is yellow, but it used to be purple. I was shy once, believe it or not, never, ever speaking up until spoken to. I obeyed my parents, my teachers, the authorities as a perfect little girl should. I never got into any trouble, except once I whispered to a classmate after the lunch bell rang and I got a five minute reprimand. I went to church every Sunday with my family, folded my hands in silent prayer and listened intently to the readings. I fought with my sisters on occasion, but I never did anything crazy like run away from home. I kept with the good crowd. Then I met him. 

Maybe it was the biker beard or the grunge look he sported, I'm not quite sure, but his eyes were deep brown. Normally, I wouldn't find myself even looking in the direction of someone like him, but his eyes drew me in. It was like he saw straight to my soul. I turned away. It felt like I had met him once before and so as I walked down the street, I turned back for a second glance. Hoping that he would be gone as if he were a mirage, I looked. He hadn't disappeared, however, he was staring back at me as if he knew I'd turn back. I shook my head in disbelief and gave a shiver of getting the creeps. Try as I might, I couldn't get his face out of my mind. 

The next week, I walked past the same spot where I had first seen him but he wasn't there. I began to believe I had never seen him. But as I turned the corner onto a different street, there he was, sitting with a homeless woman on a piece of cardboard. They were both drinking a cup of hot tea and trying not to get snowed on as another winter storm was blowing in off the river. I stopped a few feet ahead of them and stared. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine again, and everything about me froze. When I regained control of my body, I ran in the opposite direction. Who was he? And why on earth was I somehow attracted to him?

As I walked through the streets of my city, I began to hear whispers about him. They called him J. They whispered about him running away from home at a young age; he was only twelve. His parents convinced him to come home but he kept to the story that someone else made him run away. People thought he was crazy. They blamed his untraditional birth. He wasn't born in a hospital or even with the help of a midwife. He was born on the side of the road while his parents were on the way to his dad's hometown. He was different, they all said. 

Every day, on my way to classes, I would see him somewhere knew and he always gave me the same look. I wasn't intimidated anymore, I guess because I had always been the different one, too. Instead, I was intrigued by his so called friends: the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the homeless, the prostitutes, the desolate, the outcast. He called them friends and I always found him sharing a cup of tea with someone cold or alone. 

The whispers continued. I heard that he used to be the life of the party. One time, at a wedding, he made sure there was enough wine for everyone to celebrate all night long. Another story I heard whispered was that he brought enough bread to feed a whole crowd of people. How did he even know how many people were going to be there? He used to live by the sea, but he found his way here. No one knew where he lived except that on occasion, he would gather a few of his friends at a sidebar and have a meal. More often than not though, he frequented the "badlands." 

I was enamoured by his "rough, grungy look," but more so by his eyes. Suddenly, I found myself falling for this man who had a negative running track with the authorities. Once I saw him stop a group of people ganging up on a poor woman. He protected the woman without even knowing her name. When the crowd dispersed, he hugged her, and promised her a cup of tea. I watched as he walked into the closest coffee shop and I hurried over to the woman. 

"Who is he?" I asked.

"I have no idea. But he saved me. To me, he's my savior."

I saw him walking down the street toward the woman and me. I tried to turn to leave but before I could, he offered me a cup of tea. I thanked him and once again tried to leave. But he said that if I wanted to drink the tea, I had to sit with him and woman. I tried every excuse possible but he simply said, "Give it up. Follow me." He smiled and I smiled in return. Together, the three of us shared a piece of cardboard on the side of the street and spoke about God. 

He walked me home that night, right to my door step. But as I was turning the key to enter my apartment, he disappeared before I could thank him. The next day, I saw him in the park with a group of people, people I'd have normally passed right by if I didn't know this man. But the truth was, I didn't really know him. Not yet. I stopped and listened to him speak about the coming of the kingdom. He kept speaking as the authorities came to break up the gathering. Try as they might, they couldn't stop him. This happened multiple times and I found myself becoming a follower of this man. He spoke about all types of justice and authorities tried over and over to silence him. The more they tried, the more he spoke out. 

Gradually, I got to know him. Each time he would walk me home, he would tell me to give up my lavish life and go with him. I didn't know where he lived. I didn't know if he had a family. I didn't know. Each night, he gave me a choice: follow him or enter into the apartment for another night of easy living. Each night, I chose the lavish lifestyle and he went away sad. I couldn't love a man who caused so much trouble. I simply couldn't follow this man who ate and drank with the outcast, who led demonstrations on social justice, who had a record with the authorities, who had rumors spread about him. I simply couldn't. I couldn't ruin my reputation. 

"You've got to stop following him," my roommate said to me one night.

"It's like you love him or something," another said.

I denied it. I stopped walking down streets I knew he frequented. I stopped going to the coffee shop where he stopped for tea. I stopped passing the park on the way to classes. My roommates told me that following this man was dangerous, that I would find myself arrested or worse, dead. I was scared but there was something that, after a week of going out of my way to avoid him, I had to go back. 

I couldn't find him anyway. I asked the women on the streets, but they knew nothing. I asked all his "friends" disregarding any reputation I may have had. I realized that I had fallen in love with this man. Me, little miss perfect, miss goody two shoes, little miss sunshine. Yes, I had fallen in love with him. But I didn't get the chance to tell him. I had lost the opportunity. Sobbing, I walked home that afternoon; it was a Friday. As I walked, I was distracted by the noise of a rioting crowd. I ran to it as only a goody girl gone bad could. I pushed and shoved my way through to the front, tears dripping down my face still. And that's when I saw him. He was being publicly humiliated. He had been arrested, he had had a trail and now was on the way to his execution. 

"What did he ever do to you?" I screamed, running to him. 

The authorities held me back. I fought. 

"I love you," I whispered. 

"Careful, little girl. Or you'll be next," an authority warned me as he led me back to the crowd suddenly feeling bad for the little girl whose only friend was this troubled man.

As I was sobbing, a woman suddenly wrapped her jacket around me and handed me a tissue. 

"I understand," she whispered and kissed my forehead. She held my arm as we walked with the crowd to his execution. 

I did not know this woman, although I had recognized her as another face from the crowds of his followers. I watched with a heavy heart as they prepared him for his execution. 

"He will never know how much I loved him," I said to the woman next to me.

"No, my dear, he knows. Trust me he knows." 

That's when we both heard him tell us, "Mother, behold your child. Child, behold your Mother."

"You're...you're his mom?" I questioned.

Smiling, she nodded her head, yes.

"Oh, how convenient that I meet his mother on the day of his death." 

"I told you he loved you. He never stopped speaking of you."

I blushed, not understanding what she was saying.

"He knew this was going to happen. He came so that it might be so. But you are his follower, one who loves him. You must go and do as he did. Do it in memory of him. His name was Jesus."

I guess every good girl falls in love at least once with a rebel...at least my rebel was a rebel with a cause. 

      Every so often, I engage in writing prose or poetry giving Jesus a modern day story. Jesus, in His day, broke the rules, rebelled against society, cured the sick on the Sabbath, ate and drank with the sinners, etc. He had a band of rebellious followers, some men and some women. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have been Mary Magdalene or another one of his women followers. But, I'm a child of the 21st century and thus, I have to rebel in different ways, in memory of Jesus. 

Who Am I?

"I am an only one, but still I am one.

I cannot do everything, but still I can do something.

And because I cannot do everything, 

I will NOT refuse to do something I can do."

- Helen Keller

     This past weekend I did some soul searching at retreat. While at retreat, Sister Jeannine spoke to us about journaling, which is clearly one of my most favorite things to do. During her presentation, she challenged us to take journaling to a deeper level. She challenged us to figure out who we are. She gave us a formula as a little guideline and I decided to share my discovery with you. 

Who am I?

I am Rebecca Lynn, whose name means "Servant of God" and "Lady of the Water." Makes sense. I am a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a niece, a cousin. I am Croydon. I am the God-mother to two beautiful little girls. I am the Confirmation Sponsor to five beautiful young women. I am a student who is dedicated to her studies and currently misses being in the classroom (thanks, Snow). I am a lover of the English language and of literature who appreciates diagraming sentences and reading. I am a writer who expresses best through the written word, in poetry and journaling. I am a lover of words. I am a singer although not the best, can still sing praise to God. I am sometimes an artist. I am a photographer who enjoys capturing nature as it's most beautiful. I am a friend with one mouth and two ears. I am a traveler. 

I am a young woman searching for her place in this world. I am one who falls in love with people no matter where she goes whether it be the next city over or a third-world country. I am one who yearns for the soft rush of the ocean because it is steady and that is sometimes the only steady thing in life. I am one who yearns for the rush of water over my skin in a swimming pool, or the gentle breeze in my hair or the sound of blade scraping the ice because it makes me feel beautiful and it is rare I feel that way. I am one who prefers the quiet, gentle touch of hands than perpetual loud conversation between two people because between touch two share so much more. I am one who desires simplicity and not extravagance. I am one who desires not the spotlight. I am one who prefers pulling curtains than performing on stage. I am one who wishes she could cry in front of others to prove her authenticity but cannot for fear of being broken. I am one who smiles despite pain. I am often misunderstood. I am questioned. I am one who wears protective shields of armor to protect myself. I am one who has been challenged by others who have hurt me. I am one who knows heartache and brokenness. Yet I am one who loves and loves and loves without condition for I was taught by the Father to love all those I meet. I am one who loves with forgiveness and without judgement. I am one who loves all who have hurt me and all who may hurt me. I am one who responds to hurt with love. I am one who loves those who deserve love and those who, by the world's standards, do not. I am one who loves. 

I am love. I am the light of the world. I am the candle burning the bushel basket from my light. I am light for others not for myself. I am salt of the earth. I am the seasoning with which I spice up life. I am passion. If I read a beautiful book or have a great dish at a new restaurant, I let the world know. I do all things with passion because each day I am given life. Each day I am a champion over death for I have woken for yet another day and I am grateful to God. I am laughter. I am joy. I am she who laughs without fear of her future. I am joyful with the thought of each day being yet another miracle. I am bursts of energy in every task I am given by God. I am a supernova, an exploding star, of love for the world and all the beauty within it. I am a splurge of energy each second giving witness to LIFE itself. I am a servant of God who has been asked to walk a tough road; a tough road that only God and I know. I am faith on fire. I am a charismatic young woman on fire with love for God; a fire that cannot be put out. 

    Journal writing has always given me an insight to who I truly am. Writing out powerfully who I am, however, gave me strength. I cried while writing this, I laughed while writing this and at the end, I felt as if God had given me a surge of energy to continue His mission for me. Of course, this is not everything. There are many things about me that many do not know and never will know because that is simply who I am. I like to think I'm like Shrek, an onion of layers. However, I'd probably go with Donkey's alternative of a cake or parfait, both of which have layers. There are always layers to be reached, even for ourselves and Sister Jeannine reiterated that for us this weekend. 

     Now, you read mine. Go and do your own. Who are you? Start at the surface until you cannot think of anything anymore. Then start a new paragraph, go deeper this time. Stop when you cannot think of anything anymore. Finally, go even deeper. WHY are you who you are? I am energetic because of the love GOD gives me and the love I have for Him. All things in my life are expressed with that passion of being on fire for God. Who are you? Why?

Alive Again/Opened Eyes

"You called, you shouted, and your broke through my deafness.

You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness. 

You breathed Your fragrance on me; I drew in breath.

You touched me and I burned for Your peace."
- St. Augustine

     The second "half" of Mass always seems so rushed to me. Right after the homily, I feel like it's a quick boom boom boom, Communion, done. Then I am left kneeling there thinking, wait...where did Mass just go? Okay, maybe this really isn't so, but some days, I really find myself kneeling there, after receiving Jesus, yearning for just a little more time in prayer after that holiest of holy moments. Even today, I found myself longing for the song to last a little longer, for a little bit more time to close my eyes. That's when I opened my eyes.

     I wasn't singing along with the Sisters, but rather listening to their beautiful voices. Some days, I like to listen because people are seemingly always listening to me. Today, I listened and I wondered how so many sisters could make such a great sound. Usually, on days when I simply listen, I close my eyes and smile because of the happiness that simple moment gives me. Today, I opened my eyes and allowed myself to look around at my sisters, the lovely ladies I have prayed with for the past four years. While part of me got nostalgic, the other half could not stop thanking God. It was then that I had finally seen. 

     You see, this past week has been a rough one. Let's just say, it started with a "solo" adventure. I had this need to go away from school but I didn't want to go home either. So I decided, why not drive a few hours to the beach and take pictures. I couldn't explain the need to get away and I wasn't quite sure what I was getting away from. But what I do know is that Stone Harbor is a little bit closer than Peru (the other place I tell people I'm going to when I'm "running away"). So, I picked up my sister, Mary, and headed to the beach. We didn't stay very long, only an hour, but I got some BEAUTIFUL shots of the sunset. I was happy, but I was still missing something. It was a strange feeling.

     We headed back to campus and my Sister camped out for the weekend. I worked all day Saturday at the Motherhouse and even there, I was not my normal self. I was feeling empty. I also was feeling under the weather. LONG story short, I wound up with strep throat for four days and a lovely fever for three. Yay. I was stuck in bed, not that I could really complain, because I was feeling AWFUL. But I could hear everything around me. I could hear my neighbors enjoying the snow day, I could hear the nunnies shuffling down the hall to get to Mass, I could hear my roomie coming and going throughout the day with friends. I felt even more empty; like I was missing out on something.

     As I snuggled in my bed and attempted to get better, I thought about was really bothering me. Suddenly, it seemed that everyone was settling into their futures, whether it be making plans for apartments, applying for jobs and most definitely, getting into relationships. Now, don't get me wrong, how many times have I said that seeing my friends happy makes me happy. I love watching them experience life and be happy. But often, I feel I am not really participating in their lives when they are happy. I've always been okay with that. In fact, my personality kind of enjoys it. It's the introvert in me. But for some reason this week I had just felt like I was really missing out on something, even if I was in the same room as they were. Then it hit me: my life, no matter how close we may be, will always be very different from theirs. 

      My friends will enjoy going out on first dates, double dates, wedding planning outings, dress shopping, baby shopping, baby stuff, family stuff, etc. I will enjoy living with my Sisters, making my vows, watching families grow up, teaching children, maybe living in a foreign country. You see? Very different. I know that by accepting the call from God, I have chosen to give their lives up and there is usually peace about it (because it is the right path for me). But sometimes, it gets little difficult. They can hold hands with their boyfriend/girlfriend. I, alas, cannot. And for some reason, this notion really hit the heart this week. Of course, I was dealing with strep and everyone gets the icky sicky blues when they are stuck in the infirmary of their room. 

       On Monday, the first day I had skipped morning Mass in a VERY long time, Sister George called me. She asked how I was feeling and then told me that on Channel 59, Academy Award Winning Musicals were on all day. I smiled at her outreach. She's so precious. She's coming with me when I graduate. On Monday night, my lovely neighbor sent a little message : "So strep? That's why you've been so quiet." I laughed. It hurt, but I laughed. Of course, throughout the day a few other sisters reached out just to say take care or get well. I smiled. By Tuesday night, I was feeling much better. I didn't have a fever anymore and I needed some fresh air. So, I walked outside for a treasurer's meeting with our class advisor and class president. MAN DID THAT FEEL GREAT. However, I was still feeling a bit melancholy about everything else. 

       By Wednesday, I was feeling much better. So, after noon mass (we had a snow/ice day), I decided to get a few people together and go to Camilla. What an adventure that was. Long story short, Sister Mimi, one of my Sisters from Peru, was visiting and giving a presentation. I saw so many of my dear Camilla Sisters that suddenly all the sadness and melancholy-ness (I know this is not a real word...) disappeared. I was surrounded by beautiful women of God who reminded me why I am discerning this life. As we watched the presentation from Sister Mimi, I had many of the same reactions as they did. Sighing over the cute babies. Excitement at the sight of new buildings. Claps of joy, loud whispers, etc. That's when my friend, Paxton, leaned over and said, "One day, that will be you." 

       In the middle of my sickness, I had also had the thoughts that I might not make a good sister. I fought with the devil on that one. I struggled thinking that actually, I was not worthy of that life. I could not possibly make a good sister. But then Paxton reminded me, without knowing it, that I was right. I AM NOT WORTHY...but, no one really is. She gave me a glimmer of hope, just as those dear Camilla Sisters did. I need to persevere; I need to keep going. I refuse to give up, I needed to say. 

      I left Camilla feeling renewed in my Spirit. I had seen the Mother General checking up on her Sisters at Camilla (the power had been out all morning thanks to the ice storm) and that warmed my heart. It was a reminder of why I had ever thought of this life. I needed that. I found myself at the Motherhouse that night and at peace. Then this morning, when I opened my eyes after Communion and looked around to see those beautiful women of God singing their hearts out, I felt my heart overwhelmed with peace. 

       It doesn't matter that my life will be different from my friends. It's okay to go through difficult times, too. It's okay to experience hardship and pain. A dear Sister Eileen told me once that religious life is full of struggles and challenges, but in the end, it is the most beautiful life one could experience. I don't know why I didn't remember that this week (I had just spoken with her the other day...). This morning, I couldn't agree with her more. There are times, even in my discernment, when the road gets rocky. This past week was one of the rocky times. And yet, this morning, when I watched my Sisters sing and even yesterday holding hands with Sister Cyril, I felt that I knew, once again, that this path was still right for me. I left Mass this morning with opened eyes and feeling ALIVE AGAIN!