Loving Through The Hurt - A Reflection on Boston

"You have heard that it was said, 'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,'

But I say to you, do not resist an evil person;

but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him.

You have hear that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy,'

But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

- Matthew 5: 38, 39, 43, 44

     Many of you know me as the loud girl, who loves to use her words for everything, but especially advocacy and justice, and who will not be silenced. (Ironically, as I write, "So It Goes" by Billy Joel is playing on my playlist and he is singing about silence...) You know me as a passionate young woman with many advocacies but the truth is, all those advocacies fall under Social Justice. And while I see that our country has a beautiful "justice system," I question the usage of the word "justice." 

    In the last week, I, along with my fellow Americans, watched the Terror befall the streets of Boston during a most prestigious marathon and the fight for what we call justice. One week ago today, I woke up to my phone going off with notifications about the Boston Marathon Bombings. I felt my heart become overwhelmed with sadness and fear, just as it had on the day of the Sandy Hook shootings not too long ago. The first thing I always want to do is hear the voices of my parents and my little sisters, just to make sure they are okay. In both cases, none of my family was near Sandy Hook or Boston, but still there is a panic that goes through my system and I worry about them. These events remind us that we are never sure what could possibly happen. 

    As I watched the news unfold Monday night at work (the motherhouse sisters can attest to the fact that this was the one sole time I ever watched the TV at work), I was struck by the phrase, "We had no inclining that this was going to happen." The Marathon was staffed by numerous first responders in the case that any participant needed help and to keep the running route safe. Not a single one of those first responders expected to go to the Marathon and end up dealing with a triple bombing. Not a single one of those runners expected the ground to shake out beneath them or to be leaving that day a physically changed person. When you run a marathon, you don't expect terror to ensue. When you work a marathon, you don't expect a bomb to go off during the race. It was not expected, it was not planned on, it was not a normal day therefore and will go down in history. 

    I continued to watch the news until it seemed that everything being said was already said. I found myself exploring social media and the internet for more information. I, just like every other single person in the United States, wanted information. Who was hurt? What was being down to help? How many people? Was it an act of terrorism? Was it an accidental explosion? Who was responsible....? In searching the internet, I didn't find any of that information. Instead, I found pictures of the heroes of the day, tweets from the Red Cross telling the world how many runners kept running straight to the hospital to give blood; facebook posts praising the first responders AND the civilian heroes. I was so proud of my country. I am a product of America, an American sweetheart as someone once told me, and seeing the positivity all over social media, made me proud. I was proud of all those who assisted the hurt, the helpless that day. I was so proud and I wished I could have done something more to help than smile and praise them. I felt also, compassion for all of those who were hurt and and killed, especially Martin Richard, the 8-year old boy. His death hit so close to home as my baby sister is eight years old, too. I found myself praying for those hurt, for their strength and for those who helped that day, in thanksgiving for their willingness to selflessly give of themselves. 

      Over the next few days, those stories of heroism continued as did the prayers of so many throughout the country. But as the week progressed, the focus turned from the actual people of the Marathon, the runners and the helpers, to those responsible. So many people were quoted saying that no matter what we will find the people responsible and they will pay. I believe that is the moment when prayer was forgotten. The focus went from "praying for Boston" to finding and serving justice to those responsible. Now, before I go on, I must say that I know how sensitive this subject is to many people all over our country. I understand that justice must be served as a wrong was performed. I am aware of all of this and so, what I may have to say could be hard to understand, it may anger a good amount of people, but under the terms of Social Justice, I am advocate for loving through the hurt.

      By the end of the week, I found myself watching the news with some of the Sisters at home. It was Friday, the morning of the MIT shooting which then progressed in the death of one of the Boston Bombing suspects and the capture of the other. I watched the whole thing unfold from the comfort of the convent community room and surrounded by a few of my sisters. The conversations were flying with every new update. One of my closest sisters was sitting next to me and often, we had found to be on the same thinking wavelength. Just as I was thinking what the nurses would be thinking if Dzhohhar was injured and had to be taken care of, Sister said it. Of course, this began a long justice conversation. In the end, we both decided that ethically, those nurses should take care of him and heal him, as he is suffering. Regardless of what he was responsible, he was first a human being. After that conversation, I realized there was a much, much bigger issue in our hands. 

     I began to see things on Social Media surface about wanting only justice for this man. Many were calling for a death sentence, or three lifetimes worth in jail. Others were stating that they didn't want to know his family history, his life story or even his name. They wanted to know nothing about him because as it seemed, it was only giving attention to an undeserved person. I disagree. I want to know his name. I want to know where he came from, who is family is, what his life was like. I want him to understand that what he did was wrong, but why teach that murder is wrong with murder? Why? Why do I want to know these things? Because for me, regardless of his wrong, he is a person. 

     All my life, I have been taught the lessons from Matthew 5. Turn the other cheek, love your enemies, etc. And yet, where is this present right now in our news and the media? I don't see it, I may not have twenty-twenty vision, but I'm not blind. It's not there. Prayer has been forgotten. When I heard on the news that Dzhokhar's father wanted justice for his son, I didn't at first agree with him radically coming over to the United States and wreaking havoc. I still don't, but he gave us something to really think about. This 19-year old man (if he can really be called that, as he, to me, is still a child) was HIS SON. Yes, he did something so very, very wrong. He so obviously hurt so many people; it was wrong. I cannot deny that. But, why must we hate him for it? Why is there so much hatred, such a calling for "justice," for the death penalty, for such harsh sentencing? Why? 

     What this man, this child, did was wrong. But regardless of this, he first came into this world just as any other human being, and so, he is a human being. Regardless of the wrong, he still shares my humanness. Regardless of the wrong, HE IS MY BROTHER. We must learn that while what happened in Boston was a tragedy and so many people were hurt, this man was obviously hurting, too. For, no one in their right human mind would want to hurt others of their same kind. We must not HATE the MAN, but HATE the HATE WITHIN THE MAN. I want to know his name so I can pray for him, I want to know his family so I can pray for them, I want to know who he was as a person, because HE WAS AND IS A PERSON. I want to love him, love him as a fellow human, love him as a brother. I hate the hate within him, but I love him. And so, perhaps this is a blog post not about social justice, but rather loving through the hurt. 

      I have carried in prayer all of my brothers and sisters who were hurt and killed during the Boston Marathon. I have prayed every single morning and every single night with them and for them and their families. I have carried in prayer all the first responders who were there and who came after to help even more. And now, I pray for Dzhokhar as my brother and sister. Because what makes him less human? Let the first without sin cast the first stone. And yet, we cast stones, despite the sin we carry in our own hearts. Dzhohkar was filled with hurt and pain, which he wrongly projected on so many helpless people. It was sin that he carried, just as we carry every day and so we must love past the sin, love the man within. Just as God loves us. 

Yes, These Are OUR Spoons

"Take my heart, O Lord, take my hopes and dreams,

Take my thoughts, O Lord, and my memory, 

Takes my tears, my joys, my liberty,

I surrender, Lord, all I have and hold. 

I return to you, your gifts untold.

Give me nothing more than your love and grace, 

these alone, oh God, are enough for me."

- "These Alone Are Enough," Dan Schutte

    A million and two thoughts were going through my head: what if I missed it? is today really April 20th? did that invite say 10 or 11 AM for Mass? who am I going to sit with? I'm going to be the youngest one here; what if my RSVP card never got there? did I mail my RSVP card? oh no. And then, I pulled down the visor in the truck, looked in the mirror and heard the voice, "Shush. Peace. You look beautiful in black and white." I smiled gently, talked some confidence into myself and then jumped down from the Driver's Seat. I walked the same walk from the back parking lot that I have always walked and it was as if every footstep I every took, was pulling me forth again in peace and beauty. I turned the corner and I was overwhelmed by the "OH MY GOSH. YOU'RE HERE!" and the image of black and white running (I use that term loosely) toward me. Suddenly, into the arms of my dear Sister Teresa I was huddled. With a sisterly kiss on the cheek, she told me that she had been really thinking about me lately and was hoping she would get to see me today. Ironically enough, I had tried to call her twice last week because she was overwhelmingly on my mind but I got no answer. You know I believe that everything happens for a reason and God definitely wanted this meeting to be of great joy. 

    After a few minutes of chatting with Sister Ter outside, I headed in where I was greeted by a plethora of sisters with various different greetings: "Bec, dear, so good to see you," "Welcome home, dearheart," "Did you get the black and white memo?" and of course, "We've missed you." Hugs and kisses were shared all over in the hallway where it seemed everyone was gathering. I couldn't help but smile as I saw so many faces of sisters I hadn't seen in such a long time, like my sisters from Chicago and my number one girl from Roma. But I still didn't see Sister David, the celebration girl who was the main reason I found myself once again at Infant Jesus. We share a similar spirit, so I wasn't surprised when I saw her bustling from person to person down at the other end of the hallway. Mass was to begin soon and so, we all found our seats in Chapel. Those few quiet minutes before Mass truly opened my heart to what was happening before my eyes. 

     It's not every day one gets invited to a Jubilee. Most often, we find ourselves at grand-parents' and parents' anniversary dinners and parties, but seldom do we find ourselves at Jubilees. Of course, it's not a common word in day to day conversation. So, what is a Jubilee? A Jubilee is that special word synonymous with Anniversary (synonymous is my favorite word this week!) and is used to describe a special amount of years in a Sister or Religious' life. A few weeks ago, I received another one of those fancy CSFN cards in the mail. This one was an invitation to Sister David's 50th Jubilee. That means, she's been in community...a really long time. Now, when one thinks of 50 years of marriage or in the convent, one often associates that with a very long life. But having entered as an aspirant (at the time, this was a young girl was looking to enter fully into the community upon high school graduation; she was aspiring...) after the 8th grade, Sister David has such spunk and life about her. She's a young golden Jubilarian! As she was bouncing through the hallway this morning before Mass, it was so obvious that she had spent the last 50 years of religious life happily, despite any struggles, and with her Beloved. 

      I felt so honored to be a part of her celebration today. There are many things I love about Sister David, as she was the very first sister to open up to me about the "mysteries" of religious life AND the first sister I ever opened up to about discerning these mysteries. I could always count on her to be happily singing in the hallways or praying in Chapel with me in high school. After high school, she turned my ring then hugged me off and sent me away to school, knowing that this was the best thing for me at the time. She has given up countless afternoons to share time with me and has spent so many hours praying those prayers she promised me. She's wiped tears, she's shared smiles, she's encouraged me with song, kind words and extra love. She became for me not only a confident, but a dear sister to my heart and of course, above all, an inspiration and sometimes the sole encouragement for me to continue on my own journey of discernment. To be with her this afternoon released such gratitude in my heart for her presence in my life. I, of course, began to think of my own celebrations, first when entering and then my own celebrations. I could easily close my eyes and see all my sisters hustling and bustling around Chapel and welcoming family members of mine on the day when finally I give a final, solid, forever YES to Jesus while I would be pacing in extreme nervousness. When Sister David recited her renewal of vows, I could not help but smile and hold down the butterflies of love in my stomach. It was so beautiful. Of course, the moment she brought up all those people who had helped shape her vocation, my own heart was making it's own list. My heart was ready to explode for happiness for her.

      That happiness continued downstairs in the dining room when surrounded by her sisters and her family and friends, she joyfully celebrated. There was much laughter, many stories and so much to be thankful for. In fact, it reminded me of a much (MUCH) smaller version of my family at celebrations. It felt like home. I had to sit back and soak it all in as my heart was experiencing such happiness. I watched as the sisters each helped each other out, making sure the day continued to be special for Sister David. Of course, my favorite part was that her family easily interacted with the sisters and vice versa, just as I had so often seen my family do with the sisters! To me, it shows such love and support; I couldn't help but thank God for that example. 

       A little after the meal was "dying down," I saw the same super exuberant sister subtly cleaning up. So, I sneaked away from my table and offered my hands. What happened next was literally the most hilarious series of events that could literally only happen in the convent. It first started with snuffing out Sternos with a metal spoon. I am never surprised when I am taught a new convent trick and it is one hundred percent effective and efficient. Quickly moving on, I found myself drying the dishes (as per tradition) (side story: in my house, when we do dishes, the younger sisters dry while the older sisters wash. Apparently, the convent follows this because without a doubt, I am always handed a towel). Every so often, while in the middle of drying a large chafing dish, I would feel a splash of water. Ironically, Sister Ter noticed and started laughing while telling a story of this happening previously. I mentioned that this was very Therese of her and so we continued to call the act of washing and drying dishes, practicing our St. Therese act. Half way through our "St. Therese Act" we came to a pivoting, puzzling point: whose spoons were whose. You see, the meal was catered and the caterer brought his own spoons, but because the sisters are efficient, they added their own. But now they were mixed. In my hand, I was drying a handful of spoons. Without really thinking about it, I said, "Well, these are our spoons for sure." Suddenly one sister said to another sister, "did you hear that?" I put the spoons away and Sister Ter goes, "Yes, they are OUR spoons, Bec. OUR spoons." Then, laughing hysterically, we unknowingly decided that in addition to washing the dishes, we were also going to mop the floor as suddenly a huge wave of water came up over the sink and landed on the floor. Yes, essentially, we were like a bunch of young sisters in the kitchen and I was part of the family once again. 

      Later, after all the dishes were washed, dried and put away, and the tables reset and the trash taken care of, we praised the gift of teamwork and community and headed in our separate directions. Sister Ter gave me a huge hug and told me that she thoroughly enjoyed my very casual usage of the word "our." I couldn't help but shake my head, laughing, at this woman who has literally stood by my side through every up and down in high school, just as so many sisters. From the very first math test I failed, to the moment on Kairos when I just couldn't stop crying, to these moments like today where we can share in the happiness of my future as a religious sister. Yes, every time I go home to Infant Jesus, I am welcomed in with warm arms, and reminded of how much I am loved and prayed for. When Sister David came up to me in the kitchen in the middle of our St. Therese Act to thank me for my help in cleaning up, I simply responded with, "Sister, I know that in a few years, you'll be doing the same for me. Just...pay me back later." There is always hope for my future as a religious sister. Sisters often remind me of how much I have grown from a little, awkward, Freshmen girl at NA to my young lady self. When I look in their eyes, I can easily see happiness and I wish only to have that happiness. I know that for my sisters, I am the baby, making baby steps day by day until the day I can stand before that altar and sing my vows out to God on high. 

      And so, at the end of the celebration, I had so much to truly think about and for which to be thankful. The truth is, I told many people today that next year is my last year of college. To them and to me that is a sign that I am so close to achieving this plan God has in store for me. Of course, many have asked, not only today, if I am entering right after college. And I can only give the honest truth that right away after college is not really an option as I must get some real life experience in my career field and pay off my loans. Who knows how long that will take, but to be honest, like my sisters, I can easily see my future straight ahead as a religious sister. It's as if it is almost in grasping reach and while that is terrifying, it is terrifyingly exciting. 

    Witnessing Sister David renew her vows today reminded me that this life is so beautiful and most definitely for me. I couldn't help but feel my heart so overwhelmed with love for the religious life. But most importantly, I could hear Sister David's words echo in my heart, "Jesus has been the Center of my Life for my whole life long." She instilled in me so much encouragement to keep on this journey. My dear Sister Teresa reminded me once again how much I am loved and that when the day comes, she will be hustling and bustling around making sure everything is perfect. Of course, in those moments right before Mass will begin and I will be a nervous wreck, they both, and I'm sure my entire entourage of sisters will be right there praying with me. I can see that day ever so clearly in my mind, but most importantly in my heart. Yes, my heart beats at it's truth. I know God is calling me on to sharing much more than spoons with these lovely women, more like an entire lifestyle, a life dedicated to Him and all He asks of me and a family, a family that is the entire world. So, to some up my day and my life in one phrase, "Yes, these are OUR spoons."

The Search For Dignity

"Every time you smile a someone, it is an action of love, 

a gift to that person, a beautiful thing."

- Mother Teresa

    A typical walk across campus: despite the weather, multiple people, students, faculty, sisters, walking. People are always around, always walking, always headed some place new, always dead set on a destination. People, most often then not tuned out of the world, either listening to music, talking on the phone, worrying about something. People, who will not stop but keep going. That is, unless someone stops them. Then, panic settles in. 

    I've seen it happen on a daily basis. A student may be walking, transfixed on something else rather than their surroundings and is most likely oblivious to other people walking near and around them. Suddenly, someone says hello or good morning or better yet, addresses them by name. Shocked, the student looks up and is not quite sure what to do, but by the time it hits them to respond, the other person is gone. It makes them think for a moment, but then, they go back to their routine of shutting out the world and ignoring the next five people they walk past. This actually drives me crazy. 

    For as long as I can remember, I was always talking to strangers. People tell me I could convince a brick that it's no longer a brick if I needed to. Every day, if I saw someone new, I'd say hello, how you doing? etc. I remember one day in particular, when I was about 6 or 7, in a Kmart. My Daddy was walking behind me and a man was holding the door for me. I was always taught to hold the doors for older people, and at age seven, everyone was older. So, I tried to hold the door for this man. He refused to let me and so, I followed up with a "Thank you, thank you very much" in the voice of Elvis, complete with bowing and curtsying. Of course, I embarrassed my dad, but the stranger was enthralled about my antics of gratitude. I very easily could have just walked through the door without saying a thing. But, no...I gave that man a full show of thanks for his merely holding a door. So many other instances I can remember walking or riding my bike through out neighborhood, waving and saying hello to people. I would always ask my Daddy, "who's that? do we know them?" and of course, he would answer, "no." I didn't really understand this interaction, but I grew to learn to do the same. If there was ever a person nearby, I would say hello, wave, smile, anything to acknowledge their presences. This was easy, because I was saying hello to other friendly people, other people who were acknowledging my presence in return. To love is easy when love is given in return. 

    I can remember another instance, this time, I was much older than seven. Okay...I was seventeen. Now I know that doesn't seem very old, but in my current scheme of life, it was four years ago. Humor me here. Thanks. Anyway, so it was after school one day when my friend Melissa and I were taking a walk in the park down the street from our high school. It was a beautiful day and so there were plenty of people out jogging, walking their dogs and enjoying the day. As the two of us were walking, I would casually interrupt our conversation just to say hello to the people who we were passing by. I thought nothing of it until she finally asked me to question I always used to ask my Daddy, "Do you know all these people?" I laughed as I told her know. Besides these people were easy to acknowledge as they acknowledged me in return.

     When I came to college, I made it a point to say hello to every single person I knew. Or, if they couldn't hear me, to at least smile and wave obnoxiously in their direction. Most people would give a half-hearted hello in return. Unless it was a sister, they always got really hype about someone saying hi....they always do. Occasionally, if I knew the person, his or her response would be a little more lively. Now that I've been here for three years, and have successfully scared the underclassmen with my excitement, it's expected for Becca to say hi. It's her life goal. In fact, she could probably go around all day just saying hi to people and be able to call it a successful day. That's the truth. There's something about acknowledging people; for me it's all about the love. Like Mother Teresa said, a smile is a gift of love. I'm about giving the love, my friends, all about it. 

     This acknowledgement, this life mission of mine all took on a deeper meaning a few weeks ago. Most of you, if you've been reading for a while, know that I am pretty honest, with myself, with my God and with others. So, why not be honest now? For a few weeks, I have been harboring a hurt in my heart. It may seem so small in the scheme of things, but here's the main idea of what was hurting my heart. I am used to always saying hi and quite often being ignored, most of the times because I wasn't heard (it's because of the earbuds not my lack of loudmouth). And it's ok, I smile and move on. But what was truthfully hurting my heart was when a close friend of mine would ignore every hello, how are you, or smile I gave her. It would be returned with a glare, or even worse, the acknowledgement of the other person with me but an ignorance of myself. Finally, it got to me. It broke me down and I cried a good deal about it. When I finally talked about it, all I could say was, "I don't get it. How could one human find it in them the capacity to degrade another human by not acknowledging their presence?" Then it hit me.

     How many times have I been walking in the streets of my beloved Philadelphia and ignored the homeless or the needy or even those who may have needed a simple smile? So. Many. Times. I began to think in the larger scheme of things about these people who are deliberately ignored every single day. Every day of their lives, they long for someone to reach out, not with money, but with love and every day they are denied that. As human beings, we desire and deserve the love from other human beings. In fact, we were made to love one another, not ignore one another. Humanity doesn't work when we shut out others. We have a right as a human to be acknowledged by other human beings. Some people love their dogs more than they love other humans. It breaks my heart, especially because I myself am guilty of it. It's easy to love when love is returned, but with these people, the people who need love the most, they cannot return the love. And so, it makes it harder for us to love. It's not easy to love when love cannot be given in return. 

     The situation taught me two things: first, that I need to begin acknowledging ALL people, regardless of who they are, what they are doing, and how much they can love me in return. Second, that I need to kill people with kindness. Yeah, that's a thing. I'll be honest, it's hard to ignore me. I'm loud, I'm obnoxious, I have a "cackle that can light up any room" and I put myself in the way of others unknowingly. Let's be honest, if you're not acknowledging me, it's most likely on purpose. But, I will continue to love through that. Like I said, it's easy to love when love is returned. It's not so easy to love when love is not returned. It has taken so much of me to continue to love those who have hurt me by this minor act of human degradation. However, I am grateful for it, because without it I never would have realized how much this truly goes on in our world these days and how much I take part in it.

      The other night at the Mothership, I was talking with one of the Sisters who I so often find myself contemplating the mysteries of the universe with. This is true. We have been known to spend hours past my portress duties just talking about life. This weeks mystery of the universe: human dignity and the acknowledgement of other humans. Just as I have on the college campus, I do at work. When a sister walks through the door, "Hello, Sister. Welcome home, Sister. Happy day, Sister. Have a good night, Sister." Every single person that walks through that door, regardless of whatever homework I am in the middle of not accomplishing. When she walked through the door, a welcome home was given and a conversation started. I began to tell her about my heart struggles and how I've been learning from them. She is a firm believer that we hurt so we learn. I have seen this proven true. I told how I was sitting there crying because I felt that as a human I deserved to be acknowledged and not degraded, when it hit me. I, who have been blessed with so much, have one person in my life who does not acknowledge me when so many in our world are ignored daily by every single person who walks past them. Crying, sobbing, over one person. Yet these people who have no one, especially not a Sister to complain to, to cry or sob with. They put up with being degraded every day and yet they deserve the SAME amount of human respect as I do. HELLO. What a wake up call for me. She agreed saying, all religion aside, there is not one human being on this earth better than another human being. Therefore, each human being, should address every other human being with respect, regardless of whether you like the person or not. And then I told her, Sister, Christ is in you, Christ is in me, Christ is in every single living human being on this earth. If I fail to recognize or acknowledge a fellow human being, I fail to acknowledge my Beloved. 

     And so, all of this being said: we not only learn from what has hurt us in the past, but we also must choose to acknowledge every human person we come in contact with. Now, I'm not saying, run into the nearest grocery store and go up to every single person in the store, shake their hand or hug them. No, that's a bit ridiculous. But what I'm saying is, if when shopping in the grocery store, you see you are sharing an aisle with another person and will soon be passing them, you say hello or at least smile. I'm saying, unplug with whatever it is that is plugging you up: music, cell phones, worries. UNPLUG. Acknowledge and be acknowledged. And let's face it, whether we know what is going on or not, we are all each experiencing something at any given time and who knows what a simple hello or smile could do. Of course, let's not forget those who are ignored and not acknowledged on a daily basis. Put yourself in their shoes momentarily and think to yourself, could you really handle being ignored all day long? I would go nuts. And so, my challenge to you for today/tomorrow (whenever this actually posts....) is to make it a point to acknowledge every single person you meet throughout your day, whether old friend or new, whether love is returned or not. Just do it. It will not only make someone else's day, but you day, too. And trust me...it's a good habit to get into. 

Dare to Love You More (Than I Love Myself) - Part Three of a Three Part Series

"There must be a stronger foundation than mere friendship

or sexual attraction. 

Unconditional love, agape love, will not be swayed by time or circumstances."

- The Love Dare, Stephen Kendrick

     Well friends, here it is; the final part of this series. First, my apologies that it has been over five days since the last one, but as you can imagine, with little less than four weeks of school left in the semester, my teachers are having a field day with assignments! There are some days I quite honestly ask myself why I have not yet created a writing career for myself but then again, I love being in the classroom. So, anyway, thank you for your patience as attempt to be both writer and student! Now, onto the last question of my Christian Marriage and Family interview: What is marriage in one sentence?

     My favorite answer is a tie between Mooney's and Sister Kathleen's. First, Sister Kathleen's, because I am sure you are thinking what could a nun possibly know about marriage? Having been a Sister for so many years, she simply answered, "Well, honey, I could write a book about marriage, it's that beautiful." One sentence and so beautiful! And then there was Professor Mooney, who has been married for so many years, has plenty of kids and grandkids (that often he digresses about so many times in class) and loves life. His answer: "Marriage is loving even when common sense tells you not to." 

     Now, you might even be thinking as you're reading this: what can this girl, merely 21 years old, know about marriage? Well there are a few things I could tell you about marriage. If I based my knowledge off my generation and the generation before me, I would say: "Marriage doesn't last like it used to." However true this may be, that statement does not embody what I believe about marriage. I can tell you that by the examples given to me by my parents, my grandparents, my family members, and my parish family, marriage does last and it's beautiful because of the reasons why it does.

      When I look at the beautiful and numerous married couples in my life, I cannot help but beam with love and pride. I get giddy at the sight of the older couples holding hands in church, of exchanges of signs of peace lasting more than a few seconds, of moms and dads taking turns holding baby in church, of husbands and wives pushing the other's wheelchair up the aisle for communion and of course, when no matter what has happened throughout the day, there is a whisper of "I love you" right before bed. 

      I have always been a hopeless romantic. I've already told you that any boy or man who wanted to capture my heart had to be just like my Daddy. I had dreams of going fishing with my boyfriend, going for long hikes in the mountains, burying each other in the sand, being carried piggy back style down any road, planting gardens together, and of course, holding hands a little while after the Our Father was said and done at church. Later in life, we would get married, raise and family and live simply, serving others. But like I mentioned previously, Jesus stole my heart! However, that doesn't mean that I don't regard Marriage with the same respect I used to believe it deserved. If anything, I give it more respect now than I had before, because it's not all about the happy, go lucky moments in a relationship. In fact, it's more about those times of trial.

     My generation, unfortunately, has seen so many marriages "fail." I can look at my grandparents and my friends' grandparents and see such beauty in marriages long lasting still. When I sit back and look at why, I see a level of respect that has long disappeared and a lot has to do with how much you give away. By their example, I have been able to spot my top three reasons for "failing" marriages. Let's look at my grandparents for example: girl wasn't getting in the car unless my grandfather was opening her door and then shutting after she sat down; girl wasn't dressing without her four b's covered (back, booty, belly, and breasts); and finally, girl wasn't spending the night at my grandfather's house. Now, if the first date doesn't end with a long lasting kiss, or even better a sleepover, he's not boyfriend material. Girl...are you girlfriend material? The truth is girls give away so much more now-a-days before a first date is even established. In my grandparents' days, the body was a prize to be cherished and gift not to be given until the day of one's marriage. Now that gift is used as an advertisement; a ploy to get a good date. What mystery is left these days if we use the gift of our bodies as an open advertisement. Not only is the gift now not given to only one person, but rather is now advertised for the whole world to see. It's not even wrapped in wrapping paper anymore. 

     Think about it this way: you're five years old and your best friend gives you a toy, that's not only not wrapped but has been used multiple times by other five years old. And the best part is that after your party is over, your best friend takes back that toy to give it to someone else. Now, is that fair? Are you happy with that gift? Is it even worth calling a gift? You probably didn't even enjoy it because it wasn't really your gift, but rather it belonged to the first person who used it. That's what happens with our bodies today. When we are younger, our parents wrap us in the most beautiful gift wrap possible, but then slowly but surely we become unwrapped. Maybe we've been unwrapped by the media, by rotten example, by another's false hopes. It is almost nearly impossible to remain wrapped until one's wedding day these days. And that my friend, is reason number one why marriages seem to "fail;" the body is no longer gift, but rather object. And that is said for both the body of the woman and the body of the man. 

      Reason number two is clear as day. Our society these days lives by the philosophy that "if it's broken, get a new one." How many times have we thrown something out because it's "broken" when all we needed was a new battery? How many times have we gotten a new sink, when all we had to do was use a little Draino? How many times have we gotten a new car when all we needed was a little brake fluid? How many times have we thrown a paintbrush out when all we needed to do was wash it? How many times? How many times? The same I have witnessed in marriages. One little spat about working too much has forced Divorce Court when all it needed was a simple adjustment of scheduling. One spat about not spending enough time together ended in separate bedrooms (I mean...come on...) when all you needed was family dinner together daily. Don't we see it? One little argument, the marriage appears broken, so we throw it out. Forget the 10, 15, 25 years you spent building the marriage. It broke, get a new one. That's like saying, you spent 15 years building your house and a shingle fell off in the hurricane. So, you knock the whole thing done, break everything else in the house and get a new one. Now, I'm not saying that in a marriage, if the entire second floor blows off in a hurricane that you shouldn't build a new floor. But what I am saying is re-build, fix it, not with someone NEW but with the same man or woman you have been married to for the past x amount of years. But society today says....get something, someone, new. It's not worth the effort to rebuild. 

      Finally, here is reason number three in my mind. The marriage and the family is a direct example of the Trinity in the flesh. Each person of the Trinity parallels with each person in the marriage and the family. It's a lot to comprehend and I am still wrapping my head around it almost a semester later, so I can't really explain it with clarity and simply enough for a blog post. But what I want you to think about is the sacrifice and love found within in the Trinity. Out of love for the world, God sacrificed His Heavenly Son to the earth. Jesus, out of His Agape Love for the world gave His life. And then, together God and Jesus gave us, the people the Holy Spirit just as a Mother and Father give a child. If within a marriage there was enough sacrifice and AGAPE love (stemming from the Greek meaning unconditional, I would do anything for you, even die for you, love) for the other, if we loved the other person more than we love ourselves, marriages would work. I see it in so many marriages, a love from the husband that even at the middle of the night, if his wife is sick, will get out of bed, drive to the nearest 24/7 store (which are pretty hard to find....) and pick her up cold medicine, a hot/cold compress and then drive to the nearest McDonalds for a milkshake just to make her smile. After husband takes care of wife, he tucks her into bed and then goes upstairs to rock baby back to sleep. I've seen moments when wife cooks dinner for husband and baby after watching baby all day. When dinner is done and enjoyed, wife and husband do the dishes together while baby draws her newest art project on the wall. Sacrifice and AGAPE love means loving the other more than one loves him or herself. It means even though one is tired in the middle of the night, or tired after a long day of being Mom, you still sacrifice for your beloved. 

     Marriage is so simple and yet so complex. I am not married, I do not have a family, but I know that marriage and love involves three main concepts: respect for your significant other and yourself, willingness to fix, not discard, the broken and love beyond all sacrifice. In order to make a marriage work, one has to be willing to take the bullet, jump in front of that speeding train, love beyond all telling, modeled just after our Heavenly Father and Earthly brother. I see this in all the married couples I am blessed with in my life. I see the respect for self and others, the Mr./Mrs. Fix-It attitudes and the sacrificial love. It's there, it's possible to achieve, I know it is. You, yourself must believe it. 

or 

The Men Who Can't Be Moved - Part Two of A Three Part Series

"Every man I meet wants to protect me. I can't figure what from."

- Mae West

     If you are reading this sentence and have not read Part One of this Three Part Series, go back, read it. Trust me, it will make this blog post (and the next one) make so much more sense! But just in case you only have time for one blog post, I'll give you a little background as to what I'm doing here. Thursday night in my Christian Marriage and Family class, we were sent out on a mission: ask the first five people you meet three questions. Those three questions: what is femininity in three words? what is masculinity in three words? and what is marriage in one sentence? So, we went around and questioned people from our professors to the nunnies to random students and what a wide variety of answers we collected. This later prompted me to question what my views on femininity, masculinity and marriage are. So, Part One described my views on femininity. This, Part Two, will take you on an adventure of a lifetime: me, a woman, trying to explain, masculinity. Are you ready? Let's see how much I know!

     He was my first kiss, my first love, my first friend: my Daddy. I saw this quotation on Pinterest (that place is actually extremely addicting....) and fell in love with it! How true! I also saw one that went sort of this like: be the man you'd want your daughter to marry. My Daddy is the number one full embodiment of those two quotations. I was always Daddy's Little Girl and I still am. Daddy taught me everything from how to ride a bike to how to fish to how to work a pony tail (not by example, of course) and of course, how to pray. I have distinct memories of riding in the back seat of the bike down to the marina just to feed the geese bread. Of course, there was also that time Daddy bought me a pink fishy rod kit complete with a target that you laid down in the grass and tried to hit with the hook; we would throw the line off the back deck. And I can remember tons of painful, laborious moments when Daddy tried to pull my CURLY hair into a ponytail; well, I still work it today! And how to pray: well, one night I was all dressed up in a beautiful dress and for some reason had on my white gloves (every little girl was in love with those). He was sitting on the couch, tying his church shoe when I came over and asked him how to fold my hands to pray. He stretched my hands open and then pushed them together saying, "Hands folded in prayer always point up to Jesus." 

     As I got older, he'd bandage up my knee when I skinned it falling off my bike trying to ride right over a giant pothole (this happened more than once because I thought I was...invincible). He'd let me stir the pot before dinner as long as I didn't eat it (which stunk...). He'd sometimes drop me off at school in the morning and as I'd exit the truck (the BIG truck), he'd shout after me, "Make good decisions!" Then, eventually he'd let me DRIVE THE TRUCK. Of course, there were plenty of times when he'd pick me up from my dates with my boyfriends, movie dates with my girl friends, walk in the park with me. But the thing he did the most and still does the most that I absolutely love, is when he drops me off at the convent...and then stays a little while just to chat with my sisters. It's just like those scenarios when the boy is picking up the girl and while the girl is still upstairs getting ready, Daddy is just casually shining the barrel of his shotgun. Except, he was sitting in the community room, laughing and telling story after story to the sisters (yeah..I get the story telling from my Daddy). That's when the convent feels like home; when I know my Daddy is proud and comfortable knowing that this is my life.

     Every since I was young, however, my Daddy, by the little things he did, protected me (and my sisters and mother) as his most important cherished people. I remember asking him once after work, if he'd have rather had us be boys not girls. Because, you know, every child thinks when they are young that Daddies want sons and Mommies want daughters. He said, "No. I love my princesses." Daddy did and still does all he can do to show us the simple happiness, the happiness that most of mankind can't find. One because they don't have my Daddy but two because they are so filled with ideas that happiness lies in money. It's the happiness that comes from road trips and long bike rides. Because even if we're not really doing anything like taking vacations in Cancun or buying a sailboat, he still makes us feel loved by his laborious sandwich making before an adventure or long nights spent planning the perfect day or the laughter that can be heard from miles away. My Daddy has proven to me that in order to be loved, one must sacrifice for his loved one.

     My Daddy is no body builder, that's for sure. He's no business who wears a suit a tie every day. He's no gourmet chef (although, he probably could be). We don't live in a huge house, actually we're all smushed together in three bedrooms. We don't have luxurious cars, although I'd beg to differ; the mom van is stylin'. We don't have a vacation house in the south of France. Nope, we have each other. And we are happy. My Daddy may not "provide" like so many think a man should which fancy dinners and fancy cars and fancy houses, but rather, he provides his daughters and his wife with an irreplaceable love. He gives us the time of day to listen when we're upset, he watches us struggle for a little bit before stepping in to help, just to prove that we each need to struggle first before learning that we need another person, and he shows us that happiness in the littlest of ideas is the best happiness.

     Because of my Daddy, I have become a thick skinned, raging feminist. Okay, not really. I'm a feminist in the sense that I know I am a woman, I am proud of being a woman, and I know what being a woman entails (we disgusted this in Part One!). My Daddy has taught me that being a woman, embodying God's love, demands the utmost respect from all. That is, a woman should be listened to and heard as an equal, not talked down to, not shouted at, and not, be any means, degraded. And so, I have always been a very strong advocate for woman's respect. Have you ever seen the phrase, do not walk ahead, I may not follow, do not walk behind, I may not lead, but instead, walk beside me so as to grow together? That is what my Daddy has essentially taught me about human interaction. While I am fully aware that in many situations like work and school, there are authoritative positions, that does not give anyone the right to disrespect someone who may not be in as high a position. We are all human beings to be treated by other human beings with the same love and care that we, ourselves, demand and desire. All this from my Daddy...woah. 

     Disclaimer: This paragraph is hard for me to write and may be hard for you to read. One night, I was driving with my sisters after having a horrendous argument with my best guy friend. I can still remember that moment with such clarity as it truly was the moment, I knew I had become a woman in all her strengths. Throughout the "conversation" I kept my voice calm, cool and collective, and asked for the possibility of discussing the matter in a more adult time and place. But, there was no backing down. The worst thing for me was to have my little sisters right behind me, almost as if I was shielding them, and listening to the entire "conversation." With every sentence, his voice got louder and louder until finally, I was being yelled at and accused of many falsehoods. I simply, nodded my head, and told him, that I was going to give the conversation a chance, but that was until I realized he disrespected me so much that he would raise his voice at me. Never in his whole life has my Daddy ever raised his voice at my mother. Never. So, immediately, I knew that it was wrong, that is, what was happening to me. I took both my sisters by the hand and walked out the door that night and the first thing I said to my sisters, "Don't ever get involved with a guy who doesn't respect you as much as Daddy taught us a man should. Don't ever get involved with someone who isn't just like Daddy." Of course, my older little sister said, "So....he has to be hairy?" 

      My Daddy has taught me that as a woman to demand respect while still being respectful. He has taught me how to provide for myself but that when a man who loves me enough comes around, to let him provide for me (cooking is NOT women's work....). He has taught me how to be strong, but to let my womanly emotions be the back bone to that strength. He has taught me how to struggle and depend on others because as much as I may know, I am always learning and I will always need others to depend on. My Daddy has taught me all about what it means to be a woman by being the utmost number one example of what it means to be a man. He has provided for me my whole life and will always do so. He has protected my heart, soul and body. He has been the man I need. 

     Of course, this means that any man who wants to try their hand at winning of my heart has HUGE standards to live up to. Let's be honest, if I have to teach you that opening a door for women, old people and children is respectful, forget about trying. I know that may sound harsh, but my Daddy taught me what to look for in a man. And I guess that's why Jesus won my heart over. The only thing that Jesus did that my Daddy hasn't done or can't ever do is....go to Hell and back for me. My Daddy could and would give his life for me and my sisters and mother if he needed to, just like Jesus. But Jesus, when He gave His life for me, traveled the ends of the earth, to Hell and then back again. So yeah...Jesus won my heart over because He's just like my Daddy. Or is it, my Daddy won my heart over because he's just like Jesus. Well...after all is said in done, and you have just read an entire blog post of me bragging about my Daddy, I can sum up masculinity in three words: My Daddy's Love!

Man, I Feel Like A Woman - Part One of A Three Part Series

"Women have had and still have a special role in opening doors to the Lord, 

in following Him and communicating his face, 

because the eyes of faith always need the simple and profound look of love."

- Pope Francis

    I've been desiring to write for the past week. I've tossed around ideas for a new blog post for the past for days. I've gone from blogging about a new poem I wrote this week (which is...wait for it...in two languages!) which has become my new favorite piece of literature to writing about the Sound of Music (which I've watched three nights in a row this week....I know, pathetic). But I could never get enough words out. I've started at least a blog post a day, but nothing felt right. So, I let it go. I stuck to writing my latest poem "las monjas de una monja" (one of my favorite Spanish phrases) and letters, lots of letters. Oh and watching the Sound of Music. I will be honest and admit that this week has been an emotional one. And well...that's the perfect place to start.

    Ladies. Did you ever have a day where you wake up, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, it's nice outside, your back doesn't hurt from a night of tossing and turning, and yet, you want is to cry. Nothing bad happened to you and as you go throughout the day, it literally seems that everyone is actually going out of their way to be nice to you. You smile, but you're still sad inside somewhere. All you want is to just cry and if someone, anyone is so nice as to just give you a random hug, you would actually burst into tears for no apparent reason. And on those days, often you want someone to ask you how you're feeling just so you can talk about why you're not sure why you want to cry and so you can cry, but yet, when someone does ask you how you are, you get defensive. Ever have those days? I've been celebrating almost 48 hours of being emotional. Most would complain about us being emotional, but guess what ladies, it's actually one of the most beautiful parts of being a woman.

     Tonight, in my Christian Marriage and Family class (which focuses mainly on my favorite, Theology of the Body!), my professor, the world renown, BIll Donaghy, made us go out on a excursion. This excursion consisted of us asking random people we found on a half hour walk three questions: Describe Masculinity in three words. Describe Femininity in three words. Describe Marriage in one sentence. After doing and asking people from my English professors to the nuns to random students passing by, I decided I needed to talk about this on my blog. And so, I present to you Part One of this three part blog series. Part One - Femininity.

     The first person we met on our excursion was someone I had quoted last semester in my blog about feminine beauty, Professor Mooney. He is someone who I absolutely adore. He is a literary genius, has a beautiful family but most of all is raging feminist (but you didn't hear that from me). He is constantly telling us "college women" to higher our standards, demand more of the men on campus and so on. Tonight he told us that femininity in three words is "strength, gentleness and clear thinking." Well, that of course got me thinking. After talking to quite a few more people, we went back to the classroom and talked about the results. I began to really but into emotion what femininity is for me. Like what really is being a woman?

       I began to think of the strongest women I know. I don't mean physically strong nor really emotionally strong either. What I mean is who truly embodies womanhood, femininity, and knows it. I thought of my nunnies, like Sister Marcille who is so proud of being a woman and Sister Cathy who takes sweetness to a whole other level to my Aunt Mary Ann, mother of seven, gorgeous and rambunctious children, to the saints like Teresa of Avila and Katharine Drexel. And then, I walked to the bathroom, did bathroom type things and as I was brushing the fly-aways of my hair away from my face, I realized, I, too, am a woman and proud of it. But is there a difference between the definitions of woman and femininity? Certainly.

       Most of the people we interviewed about femininity told us that it consists of being loving, caring and maternal. I would agree. A mother's love is a love not everyone can give. I may be able to "work" a dress that expresses my every womanly curve one day and a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, the next. I can also dress myself up, smother make up all over my face, or let my hair go for about three days and embrace the fly-aways. But is that femininity? Nah, that's being a proud woman. Femininity is being emotional, that is embracing our deep emotions, because every man knows we have them. Femininity is me acknowledging that I am having an emotional day and being okay with it because that's what females do, they embody emotion. Femininity is embracing our inner moms, or if you are a mom, embracing those motherhood skills even when you're not around your own children, even complete strangers. Femininity is, just as Pope Francis said, embodying Christ's love. 

     We, as women, are called to a higher calling. We are called to be the face of Christ's love. I've reflected many times on hands, hands of Christ, hands of us, hands, hands, hands. Next time you are around a mother, look at her hands, or if you yourself are a mother, look at your own hands. Remember all those times those hands held a baby, nursed a sick child back to health, mended skin with an awesome bandaid, wiped away tears of many a child, parent or friend, cooked dinner for a surplus of people, handed out another dollar bill for lunch money, lit candles on a birthday cake, played pretend with the little ones, became all dried out after washing hundreds of dishes in hot soapy water, but most importantly, were folded in prayer. Imagine all those hands have gone through. Those hands have loved, have literally embodied Christ's love for the world. Those hands are meant to be revered by all!

     Now, you may be thinking, well this blog is about discerning religious life...so like, that's perfect for us non-nunny women, but like...how does that apply to the nunnies? Someone once told me that in order to make a great nun, one must first make a good mother. FREEZE before you get ahead of yourselves. I'm not saying one should get married, have a ton of kids and THEN be a nun. No, no, no. What I'm saying is that one must have the qualities of a good mother in order to make a great nun. So, let's take it to another level. Every time someone tells me I would make a great mother (of like a hundred kids) I smile and thank them. I think of Maria from the Sound of Music with the seven von Trapp children. She knew them better than anyone else knew them and she wasn't even their mother. Of course...she became their mother. How many of us can honestly say that we know a sister who was gentle, loving and extremely maternal? I'm sure so many of us! So many sisters have embraced their maternal instincts and cared and protected children who are not their own. So many have taken on the role of motherhood more than one would could ever imagine. 

     As women, we are called on from femininity. Women are meant to be Love, that is, to be Jesus and love and care for all. What is it to be a woman? To embrace those maternal skills of love. Mothers love their children despite their children's faults. Women are called to love all despite one's faults. To me, being a woman is a beautiful thing. We are each so filled with emotion, we can have those emotional days, but without a doubt that's what makes us beautiful! Because we are "emotional," we can love. Our loving beyond all measures makes us strong, makes us feminine. That, my lady friends, is what being a true woman is. So whether, you're a mother, a single woman, a teenager, a sister, know that when you love yourself and love others so much, you are embracing the depth of what it truly means to be a woman. You have embraced God's beautiful gift of who you are! Be not afraid to cry, to love and to wear your heart on your sleeve, because we were intended to do that. In appearing "soft" we become so strong. Amen? Amen!

ps stay tuned for parts two and three tomorrow and Saturday!

Shoeless Joe Jackson Celebrates the Triduum

"Down the Via Dolorosa, called the way of suffering,

like a lamb came the Messiah, Christ the King.

But He chose to walk that road out of His love for you and me.

Down the Via Dolorosa, all the way to Calvary."

- "Via Dolorosa," Sandi Patty

     These are the days I live for: the days of the Triduum. Out of all the days in the year, these three are my absolute favorite: Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Lent is my favorite Liturgical Season, as you may have read in an earlier blog, but these three days are absolutely perfect. Once Palm Sunday rolls around I get super stoked. Except this year, my energy was a little low since I  was still a bit under the weather.

      Monday of Holy Week started the three day Busy Persons Retreat that God wanted me to partake in. Loooooooong story short, I had not signed up for the retreat, which essentially lasts about three hours over the course of three days where you meet for a daily hour-long meeting with a spiritual director. At the end of our final play on Sunday, I was listening to my voicemails when I got one from Sister Mary Jo, my retreat spiritual director. After working through all the confusion, we decided to meet for the first time after work on Monday night. In all honesty, meeting with Sister Mary Jo as my spiritual director for the three day retreat was the most fruitful three hours of my week. We read the psalms together (ironically two of our favorites...139 and 116) and prayed with them. She also asked me quite a few questions about the Scriptures and my life in general. One question I remember in particular: What are you most looking forward to during the Triduum? I couldn't quite answer honestly because there were just so many things I was looking forward to. But I told her about my personal Holy Thursday tradition of visiting the seven churches. Ironically enough, I didn't get to do that this year.

       I woke up to my little sisters begging me to take them out for the day. And since I had some shopping of my own to do before the Triduum festivities began, I figured why not drag them along to the Mall with me. Of course any car ride with Lizzie means surrendering my cell phone to her so she can keep herself occupied. In the middle of a game of Temple Run 2, a text message from Sister Marcelina, CSFN interrupted Lizzie. That meant...I got my phone back. Within a few seconds, my plans to simply go to my home Parish for Mass and then the route of seven churches I had planned out earlier in the week were changed. Suddenly, I found myself agreeing to join her and her brother (who is a Pauline Father) at the Shrine of Our Lady of Czestochowa for Holy Thursday Mass. How blessed and beautiful it was! Of course, the car rides to and fro were quite entertaining as they consisted of conversations of mice in the trunk and heart to hearts about my vocation. 

       When I agreed to go to Mass, there was a part of me that was so unsure to go out of my traditions. I was also afraid I was not going to understand a word of what was going on as they often have Mass in Polish there. But, God is good, and Mass was in English for me. However, there were plenty of people surrounding me whose first language is Polish, Sister included. As I was listening to the readings of the Scriptures, I began to reflect on feet. I know, two days ago it was hands, and now feet...but bear with me and see if you can follow where I am going here.

      Back in Jesus' time, every one either wore sandals or no shoes. They didn't have paved roadways or sidewalks to walk on. Instead, they walked in the dirt, mud and rocks. Absolutely, positively disgusting. It's like walking on the beach forever but with the addition of mud and rocks. Ouch. From what I've heard, before entering a person's house, you would most often remove your shoes. So imagine, Jesus and all his disciples, after walking for days in the dirt and mud and rocks, enter into this room where they will soon share a meal; none of them have shoes on and it stinks. After the meal is over, Jesus gets up, takes a pitcher of water and starts washing the disciples' nasty feet. Gross, man, gross. Not only is He washing the dirty, disgusting feet of the disciples, but He is also the "Master" or the "Teacher." Typically, a servant or a slave would wash the feet of the guests, but Jesus is doing it. He once again, humbled Himself to the form of servant, to wash the feet of His disciples. Of course the disciples are either all : "Ok, this is weird, Jesus. No way are you washing my feet," or "You're gonna wash just my feet? Better do my head and hands, too; I'm pretty dirty." And then Jesus responds by saying, "I am going to wash your feet." So He does it. All of this is playing through my head as Father Nicholas is washing the feet of twelve men on the HUGE altar at the Shrine. 

     I have been known, at random times, to be caught without my shoes in Chapel while praying. In high school, I would leave my clumpy, combat boot shoes at the doorway of Chapel and walk up the aisle, find a pew and just sit and be with Jesus. Sister David, CSFN told me once she always looked forward to seeing my shoes at the door of Chapel after school. At school now, often times I'll do the same but only at Marian Chapel. Sometimes, I won't even wear my shoes down from my room. Just last Sunday, Palm Sunday that is, I was walking down the hallway with my stockings on when Sister Regina, IHM saw me and said, "Bec, you barely have anything on your feet." I just smiled and shrugged as I continued to Chapel. I hate wearing shoes, and if I could, I'd go barefoot anytime. Someone told me once that it was very Franciscan of me to do that. But, because it's illegal in most places to not wear shoes, I keep them on. Except in Chapel. Even during Mass, I can be caught swinging my bare feet under the pew. Here's why: Sister Mary Annette, CSFN, once told me that where Jesus is, is Holy Ground. Just like the disciples would have removed their sandals before entering the House of the Lord, we should remove our sandals before entering God's House. God's House, is after all, Holy Ground. God also tells Moses in the Old Testament to "remove the sandals from your feet for where you are standing is Holy Ground." So, it essentially became a little tradition for me, to enter into the Chapel with socks or tights on, or to remove my shoes at some point during Mass. It's subtle, so most people would never really know, unless for some reason, you just happen to look at my feet. 

      While I was reflecting on the feet of the disciples last night, I realized that just because the washing of the feet was over, the prominence of feet wasn't going away. You see, Jesus was stripped of all His clothing and most importantly, His sandals before He was forced to carry the cross to Calvary. I realized this as I was swinging my bare feet under the pew (Ok...I had tights on...). I couldn't imagine the pain that Jesus must have felt while not only walking up hill, but while also carrying a huge and heavy wooden cross. As I was trying to fathom this, I felt in my heart, a whisper to join Jesus on that road to Calvary. What exactly did that entail? Well, not wearing shoes of course. And I had already accomplished step one: taking my shoes off. 

       About halfway through Mass, the gentle, old Polish man next to me realized I had no shoes on. The look on his face was priceless. As I told Sister Mary Jo, IHM, I often try to visualize what the Scriptures are saying and so I was doing the same during Mass. After our "Last Supper" during Holy Communion, I decided to remove my shoes for good...well, until the end of Good Friday liturgy. I imagined Jesus and his disciples walking through to the garden just to pray. It is the Garden that I visit at seven different churches, that is, staying up super later just to be there with Jesus. As we processed from the church to the chapel, I felt the cold marble under my feet and imagined the cold of the desert like ground the disciples and Jesus would have walked on. I knew when we got into the car that I most likely wasn't going to make it to seven churches that night, but I could keep my shoes off. So I did. 

       After Sister Marcelina and I made it back to St. Katherine's and participated in Night Prayer, we walked through the convent so I could wish my sisters a happy Triduum. At this point, it was close to 10:30 at night, Jesus had already been arrested. I stood shoeless in the kitchen while we chatted for a few moments and soon, I was headed out the door and on my way home. Don't tell my mom...I drove home with no shoes on. This morning, I woke up, put on the same tights and went about my morning visits to the various Chapels and Repositories to pray with Jesus some more. I started at my home Parish, where I joined a solitary soul in Chapel. When I was leaving, she turned to me and thanked me for being so open on my blog. I was surprised; I didn't know she read it. I continued my journey outside to pray the Stations of the Cross, something I absolutely love so dearly. It was about eleven in the morning, Jesus was just finishing up His being questioned. He still had His shoes at this point...mine were long gone. 

       I visited a few more chapels and then headed home. Around noon, my family decided it would be a good time to go out food shopping. So, I donned my shoes for this adventure. But soon, we were headed home again and I enjoyed a small nap. At two, I woke up with this intense, burning feeling in my heart. It was Jesus calling out to me, to go with Him, to carry His cross. So, I left the house in a haste, shoes in my hand, and walked to church from my house. At first, it wasn't too bad. The black top was warm, and smooth since we just had our street re-paved last summer. But a few blocks later, I was feeling the rocks in my heel and between my toes. And trust me when I say, I know there's tons of broken glass out there. I began to really think how grateful I was for having shoes to wear on my feet and I understood the pain Jesus felt as He walked to Calvary. A few people I passed by looked on questioningly and a little boy even asked his older brother why I was carrying my shoes. I had to laugh...no one asked Jesus why He wasn't wearing shoes; they thought He deserved it.

      Well, I finally made it to church and as I knelt (yes, I knelt :)))) ) I had the most beautiful conversation with Jesus. I didn't NOT wear shoes for attention from anyone, nor for any other reason other than Jesus called me to it, so I did it. And out of curiosity, I wanted to know what He felt. I left my shoes off for our Good Friday service and quite a few parishioners came up to me and asked me where my shoes were. I simply shrugged. I wasn't going to actually do a blog about going shoeless until one of the parishioners asked me why I wasn't wearing shoes. And then three more people asked me. So, I decided that I would just to clear up all the confusion.

      So, yes, I got this crazy idea last night in the middle of Holy Thursday Mass to go shoeless for a day. But it really wasn't as crazy as it first seemed. In going shoeless, I had a conversion of sorts. I may not have understood what it meant to walk in the dirt and mud, but I understood the rocks. I may not have carried a cross, but I carried my shoes and the prayers of all those I promised to pray for. I may not have walked three miles, but in the twenty minutes of walking through Croydon shoeless, I had a deeper understanding of Christ. Somehow, I know it was truly Jesus who called me on to this mini sacrifice. I know it was Him who whispered into my heart to take off my shoes and walk with Him on His way to Calvary. I took my shoes off because Jesus knew I needed something to help me go deeper in faith with Him. Besides, where Jesus is, is Holy Ground and and Jesus is everywhere, so every where is Holy Ground. I'm not suggesting you walk to church in your bare feet, but maybe next time you're at Mass, just slip your shoes off and let your feet experience what it's like to stand on Holy Ground. Besides, look how far Jesus walked shoeless out of love for you and me...what's a few minutes bare foot?