"The Hottest Nun-To-Be..." - A Reflection on Beauty

"Find a man who won't simply fall in love with your body and what it could offer him, 

nor your personality or charm, but rather,

find a man, a true gentleman, who will fall first in love with your soul. 

That, ladies, is true love."

- Professor Mooney

     I am a woman! And as a woman, I know that every woman desires to feel confident. Women spend hours upon hours upon hours trying on dresses and outfits, curling or straightening hair, applying layers and layers of make-up, and of course, trying on every single pair of shoes in the closet. There is more time spent in front of a mirror making oneself up than actually enjoying the dinner, dance or date she is going on. And while it can be so fun to get dressed up and made up, what my dear sisters, is the real reason inside? Deep down inside, we make ourselves up for the same reason Eve hid in the garden after she ate the apple (that Adam didn't protect her from, mind you...). Eve was scared to be seen, and so are we. 

      The truth is there is such depth and beauty in a woman. It lies in her soul. Everything a woman does, if done with all her gusto and passion, starts first with a spark in her soul and thus, her soul shines forth in everything she does. However, the soul is a delicate part of a woman, and we are afraid to show it because of its nature. Because of our souls we trust easily, and we break and hurt easily. And thus, we hide it. Except, every so often, a tiny part of our souls peek out...when we break open our beautiful smiles. And it's during that quick moment of letting loose, that someone compliments us and we find our confidence. We desire that confidence, we desire to be called beautiful, we desire to be loved. It is part of the nature of womanhood. 

      Last week, I had the beautiful opportunity to travel to downtown Philadelphia with six of my peers for a Dinner/Dance/Gala/Bash. We were representing our lovely university with one of the youngest non-profit organizations in the city: Back On My Feet. This non-profit started with a young girl organizing a group of homeless men to go running in the morning. This expanded to the entirety of the city and now three times a week, BoMF runs with multiple groups of homeless and volunteers. This three time a week running eventually turns into running marathons, getting jobs and renting homes, thus, giving the once homeless a sense of responsibility, community and getting back on their feet. What a great honor to now be affiliated with this organization.

     Now, as you can see from the pictures, the required attire was cocktail dresses and suits, with....sneakers. Personally, that was my favorite part. We had such a great, fun time getting dressed up and wearing our sneakers. While at first it seems humorous, it was such a beautiful sight to see a sea of dresses and suits and a floor of sneakers. It was so wonderful to embrace a community not only sharing a meal together, but dancing the night away. And if you know me, you know I love to dance. That's when I feel beautiful!

      When I got home, I posted the pictures from the night for all to see so they could have easily shared in the fun. Of course, we all did the typical change of profile picture and cover photo once the pictures were up. And then the comments on the pictures came. One of them, I will always remember: "You are the hottest nun-to-be." Ironically enough, that was not the first time I've heard that said about myself. I've heard it a few times. And so, of course, I began to reflect on that statement.

      What does it mean to be "hot?" To me, I first think of 110 degrees in the dead of summer. However, our society has taken the word "hot" and made it slang, thus meaning, what people used to say as "good looking," "smashing," "dapper," and of course, "beautiful." I used to take offense to being called hot, because it made me think of what we, as women, have to do in order to be consider "hot." Young girls and women would not such as dress up but dress off. Meaning, wearing next to nothing...if you ask me, I'd be cold, not hot. So, I made it my mission to tell my sisters how beautiful they really are with clothes on. I made it my mission to be a physical example of how a woman/lady/girl could be beautiful. It's been my mission to promote true beauty!! The true bearing of a soul! And the courage and confidence behind it!

      When I got the notification of the comment on my photo, I had to laugh because in truth, that word "hot" has become such a synonym for "beautiful." I looked at the picture and thought about how good about myself I really felt that night. And the best part was that I was COMPLETELY DRESSED! Heck, I even was wearing sneakers!! I felt great, because I knew deep inside, I wasn't showcasing my body, but rather my soul.

      Someone once told me that I wear my heart and soul on my sleeves, one on each side. He said I'm not afraid to bear my soul to people, to be heartfelt. He told me that I don't need make-up or fancy clothes, because when I wear my smile, I am most beautiful. Finally he said, when I laugh (and it's pretty obnoxious) I can somehow change the world. And my dear ladies, that's what beauty is. It's being confident enough to wear a smile. You don't need perfect teeth or any teeth at all, just those two upturns of your lips. You don't to showcase your body, but rather, your heart, your soul. Laugh,and enjoy the life you wear given!! And maybe, next time you go out, wear your sneaks instead of your high heels. Are you "hot" because of what you wear? Or "beautiful" by how you act? I prefer to be beautiful, don't you!! And trust me, you are ;)

      As for being the "hottest nun-to-be," Jesus sure is one lucky Man, huh? I mean, sometimes, I swear God made me with an extra twinkle in my eye just to show off. Sorry, guys, I'm His!! 

When the window in the mom van doesn't go up all the way...sadness

Being a typical girl.

Love this girl so much...leaving a legacy <3

The left side of the table...

...and the right side of the table.

Potential to be best friends? I think so!

The Perfect First of Autumn

"The morns are meeker than they were, 

the nuts are getting brown; 

the berry's cheek is pumper,

the rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf, 

the field a scarlet gown."

- Emily Dickinson, "Leaves"

    One of the many known facts about me is that I absolutely, positively, LOVE fall. I've always been in love with sweaters, pumpkins, apples, leaves, hayrides and everything that deals with fall. I find such absolute beauty in it from the way the wind seems to blow differently, to the smell of all things pumpkin spice, the joy I see on my little sisters' faces when we carve pumpkins. I love taking walks just when the leaves are changing colors and falling on the sidewalks. I love the multiple fall festivals and I love the fellowship it seems to have about it. I just love fall so much!

     Now as many of you may know, the first day of Autumn was today, and what a perfect day is was for me! Although, I was caught it shorts and a t-shirt (no sweaters in this 82 degree weather), it was beautiful. The fog rolled across the hill of back campus like a picturesque movie and the wind gave a soft whisper in my ear as I and my friends and peers piled into the school van. We were headed to help out the Chester County Food Bank with apple picking. I couldn't have been more excited! It was the perfect day!!

     We pulled up and right away half of us were pinned as not having the proper attire. Oops, didn't get that memo. The only reason we were meant to have pants though is because of poison ivy. Most of us didn't care, so we picked apples anyway. It often seems that the best things are high up and out of reach. The same happened with the apple. The best and the brightest of the apples were at the tops of the highest trees. What the normal person would do would be grab a ladder to reach. What we did was climb on each other's shoulders to pick the highest apples. We actually got the job done faster that way!!

     After three hours of straight apple picking, three bee stings (or kisses, as I like to call them), lots of laughter, tons of pictures and bushels of good fun, we picked over 2800 pounds of apples that day!! It was more than they had picked all week!! I guess with 13 people, we can really get a job done!! It seemed like such a perfect day, picking apples. But my Fall Fun wasn't over yet. 

     When we got back to school, my dear friend and I decided to don our aprons and go on a baking spree. Inspired by the apples we picked, we decided on some fall flavored fun foods, like pumpkin spice cookies and banana bread. YUM! For two and a half hours we baked and baked and baked. There are so many pros to baking in our dorm building. Not only do we get to have fun with each other while baking, we also get to feed to the hungry friends and sisters and share the joy. Being domestic, we decided, is one of our favorite hobbies. I can honestly say that in less than 24 hours, almost all but few cookies are gone!

     While baking with my Aproned Queen Partner in Crime, we decided a few things. One: All of our recipes that we've made in the past year and the next few years HAVE to go in a recipe book, that we are going to make my hand!! Because you know, we never do anything NOT from scratch!! Two: if we could change the world by baking for people, we would bake all the time. Three: Sister Cathy always gets first dibs on tasting. Four: There should always be a plate of something homemade somewhere!!! There's a beauty in that! 

      And so, the perfect first day of fall ended not just with providing the hungry with 2800 pounds of apples for apple sauce, but baking a bundle of fun for some many!! Oh how I wish I could bake all day, every day!!! 

Innovative way to get those apples at the top.

These overly friendly, kissing friends.

Thumbs up for 2800 pounds of apples.

"Even Jesus picks apples."

My beautiful RA catching apples!!

Pumpkin Spice cookies!!!

The Two Beautifil Aproned Baking Queens

The taste-testers!!

Learning How To Fall Into Solidarity - A Reflection on Wes Moore

"Are you going to partner with someone because you know them? 

Or because they are fellow IU students?

Or because they are fellow human beings?

You're more similar than you think. "

- Professor John Church

      One little known fact about me is that from the moment I turned 15, I wanted to earn my pilot's license for small aircraft. Whenever I'm asked during an icebreaker what superhero power I would love to have, I always say to fly. There is just something so great about being able to fly OR having the wind at your face. The goal to earn my pilot's license came as a result of a few reasons: First, I could have a pilot's license before a driver's license. Second, two of my uncles are licensed pilots. Third, something about growing up to being a sister who had her pilot's license was enticing. And fourth, it coincided with another one of my goals.

       Honestly, when I was bout 15 years old, I made a list of 25 life goals. Some were a little crazy like "swim with polar bears or some other 'dangerous' animal" and "live in Africa." But others were a little more reasonable like, "get my pilot's license" and "jump out of a plane." Yes, I've always wanted to go skydiving. Now, of course, I wouldn't do both things at once, that is, fly the plane, then jump out of it. But, I wanted to do those crazy things. However, those were the dreams of a naive teenage girl and I had since put those dreams to the wayside. Until last Thursday.

        One of my many roles on campus is an First Year Experience (FYE) Mentor. This means I "co-teach" a class of new students once a week with a faculty member. During class we cover all types of subject matter such as school policies, academic success, time management and the common reader. The common reader is always my favorite part. The whole class of 2016 (and every new class coming in) has to read a book. This year's book was The Other Wes Moore by Wes Moore. In addition to actually reading the book, the students have to write a reflection paper on the book and attend a faculty lecture on the book. My job's easy, I just have to read the book. And maybe attend a faculty lecture. Ok let's be honest, I'm a literature dork, so of course I'm going to attend probably all of the faculty lectures! I started with the first faculty lecture this past Thursday. 

        The lecture began by Professor Church telling us how to jump out of a plane as a paratrooper. Professor Church is not only a wonderful English Professor, but also a retired member of the US Marine Corps. So when he speaks, he doesn't speak, he yells. I love his energy. Over 110 new students, in addition to many FYE mentors, and some other faculty members were present. I'm not going to lie, if I was a new student and had never met Professor Church, I probably would have been scared out of my seat. He told us all to link arms and so we did; all of us. Then he kept shouting "six minutes," "five minutes," "one minute," "thirty seconds," and he had us all standing up, linking arms, swaying back and forth, shouting back his commands. All of a sudden, I felt like I was really jumping out of a plane. But, right before he should have shouted, "Jump!" he calmly said, "Sit down." 

        Having not read the book yet, I had no idea why this played any role in Professor Church's lecture. Regardless of this fact, he easily wove it into so many beautiful and wise statements. Lucky for me, I started and finished the book yesterday while at work. It was the type of book that I was so into, I couldn't put it down. Whenever the phone rang at work, I didn't answer until I finished the paragraph. And when the book ended, I openly shouted, "What? It's over? It can't be over." Yes, I want a sequel. But the truth is, there can't be a sequel; it's a true story. And right toward the end of the book, one Wes Moore goes through his first jump out of a plane as a paratrooper, while the other Wes Moore is being chased by the police for the murder of a police officer. Both experiencing adrenaline, but of two different sources. 

        Finally, I had the connection between the paratrooper exercise we did at the faculty lecture and the book. But really, there was so much more with which I could connect. It was a story of solidarity and of understanding. Of two different people realizing so much similarity between themselves. For many it's hard for us to imagine poverty. Even if we don't have time for a job between classes, or take a vow of poverty, or don't have a car. But the truth is, we are so rich; I am so rich. I have a roof over my head, a family who loves me, and a hot meal every night for dinner. I go to school, I go to the store, I go to the gym with ease. I don't see any gunfire, or heroine use, or severe alcoholism. Not when I'm here at school. However, only a few steps outside my hometown, all of that poverty is right before my eyes. Every scene that Wes Moore described in his Baltimore City or The Bronx, I've seen before. I know it's real. I see it all the time.

        Professor Church covered all types of things in his lecture about poverty and solidarity. He said, "If we just took the time to get to know each other, we'd find that the more we know about each other, the more similarities we find." That really hit my heart. It's so true. There might not be that many differences between myself and the homeless teenager I see walking down the street when I'm home. Yes he might be younger than me, and a young man, but maybe his favorite color is yellow, maybe he likes the Phillies, maybe he has two sisters, maybe he likes to paint, maybe, just maybe, he's not that different from me at all. And that's what both Wes Moore and Professor Church were trying to make young people like myself understand. It all goes back to the paratroopers. We can't stay in the plane, we have to jump, but we have to jump together. Am I willing to "partner" with someone who appears so different? Am I willing to take the chance? Am I willing to risk my own life, maybe, by reaching out to them?

         Right before I got to college, I took a few ridiculous goals off my list, revised a few old ones and   added a few new ones. I always wanted to teach, but going to college made that a reality. So what? What did I want to teach?  Who did I want to teach? Where did I want to teach? Why did I want to teach? Originally I wanted to teach Theology, but somehow English squeezed into the picture. I think it all makes sense now. I want to teach students, from all different cultural backgrounds and in the inner city of Philadelphia's poorest neighborhoods. Why? Not to save these students from some type of crime, gang life, or drug and alcohol addiction, but to feel solidarity with my fellow human beings, my brothers and sisters in Christ. I want to live what they live and work for a better world in solidarity with all people. That goal is more like a dream, a dream formulated by so many, including both Wes Moores and Professor Church.

Saved On The Way Down

"On the way down, I saw You and

I won't forget the way You love me.

On the way down, I almost fell right through, 

but I held onto You."

- Ryan Cabrera, On The Way Down

    Because of my English major nature, I have a tendency to find poetic ways in which to describe myself and my feelings. As I was reading for my classes last week, I felt complete solidarity with Gilgamesh as he traveled through 12 leagues (which is 2.4-4.6 miles long) of darkness and the Puritans who mourned death constantly in their poetry. I began to read The Shack for the second time and felt complete solidarity with Mack's ultimate heartbreak. Often, when I know I need to cry, I compare myself to a bubble of tears getting ready to burst if even the gentlest brushes me with their touch. However, this time, the bubble seemed too weak a comparison. So, I found a better one instead.

    Sometimes I think emotional pain is so much worst than actual, physical pain. However, that could easily be because I have such a high pain tolerance. For a whole week (and I know I am not alone in feeling this way), since Mike's passing, I've felt like an emotional earthquake. I felt that as the minutes go by, I was cracking more and more. I felt like the emotional earthquake was breaking the stability. But it wasn't doing it the quick and painless way, it was taking it's good, old time to break me down. At any moment, I felt like I was going to crack fully and then the tears would just flow without stopping. But I didn't break; not yet.

     My wonderful Daddy (seriously, he IS the best) picked me up from school late Wednesday night after my class ended at ten. The drive home was not like my usual rides home filled with laughter, loud conversation (we're so Italian sometimes) and tons of singing, but rather quiet, dazed and tearful. As we drove, I watched the sky from my window as silent tears flowed down my cheeks. I was almost home in my bed where I could finally let out the sobs I had been holding in all week. Suddenly, my dad told me who would be celebrating the Funeral Mass: our previous pastor, Fr. Larry. I could say nothing but, "Oh great," dreadfully. Just earlier that day I realized that the last time I had cried that hard was almost three years ago when he was transferred out of our parish. I knew instantly that if I even glanced his way at the funeral, I would crack. 

      Within hours I found my stomach churning as I mentally tried to prepare myself for what I was going to have to go through with my family and dear friends. I headed the church to practice the psalm and Ave Maria, songs I knew like the back of my hand. I didn't cry. I went to the funeral home and silent tears fell down my face as I hugged my Parish Family. I went back to church and prayed with the other members of my parish family; shed barely a tear. Mass begin and my heart continued the process of breaking. I realized Mike was a person I never thought I was going to lose. As much as I know that all earthly life comes to an end and everyone dies, he was that strong, fatherly figure who just couldn't die. It seemed impossible. As I sat in the pew barely listening to the first reading, I felt the emotional earthquake starting in full force. I felt sick to my stomach as I said over and over and over again, "Jesus, please. Help me." 

     I walked up the aisle, bowed at the altar, and began to sing the traditional psalm 23. Having sung the familiar verses so many times, I could easily close my eyes and sing from memory. For some reason, closing my eyes made singing so much easier. Perhaps because I couldn't see the beautiful members of my parish family. However, for the last verse, I opened my eyes. I sung so loud and clear and then suddenly, I cracked as I tried to sing, "I shall dwell in the house of the Lord all my days." I was done. I lost my voice in the cracks the earthquake was setting off. The tears exploded, and what would normally make any other person want to runaway and hide, I stood there, listening as my parish family sang what I was meant to sing. When the piano stopped playing, I turned to make my exit off the altar, but suddenly was engulfed in arms so big and loving. Fr. Larry had crossed the altar, pulled me into a giant hug and that's when the sobbing started. You know, sobbing where you can't breathe, the kind of sobbing I described last blog post. Right there, on the altar, wrapped in a giant hug, I sobbed. 

     He had always been the one who made everything else make sense. He was that crazy uncle that I just loved and loved. He made fun of me playfully, knew when he had to listen, made everything wrong that ever happened seem ok and always, always, always stood up for me. When I found out he was being transferred, I cried so bad for so many days. I couldn't believe he was being taken away from us. And yet, things were ok for a while once he left. He kept in touch, called me every so often to see how school was going, to see how the family was, you know, casual. Then life got busy for him, and life got busier for me, and until yesterday, it had been almost a year since I talked to him. Now that's not to say I didn't think of him or pray for him, but I almost came to the peace of knowing things would never be the same and the distance was growing. Yet, there he was, holding me in the tight teddy bear hug as I sobbed over the loss of our friend. 

      As my Daddy read the second reading with his strong voice, Fr. Larry sat with me and told me how good it was to cry, how healthy it was, and if I didn't cry, he'd be worried I didn't care, that I had lost the loving sensitivity I always had, that he loved. Within a few minutes, the earthquake had happened, the cracks were opened, the tears had flowed out and he had poured in the cement in the cracks to put me back together. It was literally like he hugged the pieces back into place. He cared enough to break away from the traditional priest stereotypes so many times, and this time was no exception. You see, I was headed down, down, down, into the cracks of a deep sadness, but He saved me by sending someone who always seemed to have saved me before. I am so blessed to know not only beautiful sisters and religious, but also some kick butt, sincerely caring, superhero style priests!

      As I've told many who've asked today, things are still going to be hard; how can they not be? However, I've had closure, I'm at peace and I've been put back together. I can't thank all of you enough for all the prayers you've said for my Parish family and for me. The spiritual support is immense. I truly am so blessed to know such great people. Especially those who are willing to save me on my way down. 

Counting The Tears

"Don't ever discount the wonder of your tears. 

They can be healing waters and a stream of joy.

Sometimes they are the best words a heart can speak."

- W. Paul Young, The Shack

     "You have a history with 'Mikes'," she said to me. "Yeah, I guess I do," I answered wiping snot and tears off my face. I had been curled up in a ball on the last seat in the last row of chairs in Chapel when she walked in. I was literally sitting in the fetal position, with my head down, sobbing. Not even five minutes before another sister had walked through the "magic door" and found me there. She gently came over, stood beside me, with her hand on my shoulder and said, "Cry, just let it out. I'll pray. You cry." Five minutes later, my dear sister walked in and found me. I hate, hate, hate crying in front of people, especially people whose idea of me is the "tough as nails" girl. Yet, I just continued to sob as these two sisters walked in and sat with me. It was the type of crying where you can't really breathe right, or even talk higher than a whisper, because  the tears are just continually running down your face. It was the type of cry, where I just wanted to fall into someone's lap and stay there, protected from the horrible news I just heard. As I sit here to write this, I sob again, mourning not only a friend, or a fellow parishioner, but rather, someone who was like another father to me my whole life. 

     He was a sarcastic man, with a brutal sense of humor. You had to learn to understand him. He was a rough and tumble type of man, like mot people from Croydon. He never took any crap from anyone. He came off as mean and bitter and wicked, but we all knew that was just Mike. Inside, he cared more about you than he often let on. I know this for a fact because he always told me that if anyone tried to hurt me, he'd have to use a lot of self-restraint not to kill them. Truth is, he probably would. He wasn't afraid to tell people how he felt, or what he thought, even if he was wrong. It often seemed as if he was made of cast-iron and maybe some brick, too. Yet (and he'd kill me for saying this but it's true...), he was marshmallow soft instead. How do I know? He told me my voice was good enough to make a grown man cry, tears of awe. And after he said that, he told me if anyone but me sang at his funeral, he'd jump right out of his casket and raise hell. These are all direct quotations, I promise. He made me promise with my whole heart that I would do all I could to make sure I sang at his funeral. I never thought I'd have to do it from my pew so soon. 

     Most people don't get the close-knit network my Parish has. It literally is like I have so many fathers, so many mothers and so many brothers and sisters. The sign of peace takes forever, because we HAVE to say hello  to everyone. The saying, "It takes a whole community to raise a child" definitely applies to EVERY SINGLE KID that grew up in Croydon. We are all so close with one another and so right now, we're all mourning with one another. I can't tell you how many Facebook messages and texts I've gotten from my parish family members, all of us in tears, just sobbing over the phone or the internet. Losing Mr. Frat, is losing a part of my family, losing a part of myself. People shake their heads at how upset I get when something happens to my parish, but they just don't understand. This is family. This is what sustains me in prayer and love and faith and humor. And the hardest part about being away from all of them right now, is that I have to cry alone physically. I know spiritually and emotionally, they are all carrying this sorrow with me. But it's hard. I just wish I could be home. 

      This is a lesson in trust, I know. I have to trust God on this. And I also think this is God telling me, I'm getting soft in my old age. I mean, I seriously just told the whole world I'm sobbing and mourning. I've got to really trust God in this situation. I've got to trust that He knows what He is doing. And I've got to trust that He'll send me someone here with big open arms, willing to get their shoulders soaked, and hold me in a long hug while I try to count my tears. 

       Thanks all for the prayers and support. I know the family really appreciates it. 

Call Me, Maybe? Or Marry Me?

"I have foresight and it's real.

I didn't know I would feel it but it's in my way.

All the boys try to chase me."

- Carly Rae Jepsen, Call Me Maybe

     I'm going to tell you all a secret: When I'm alone, whether it be out walking or in the Chapel, and there is wind blowing gently (or a fan), I close my eyes and breathe deep. This is the only time I feel beautiful. When the wind drapes across my closed eyelids and tickles my cheeks. The gentle breeze blows my fly-away hair strands away from my face, as if God is doing it with His own hands. Yes, if I close my eyes, and the breeze wash over me, I feel beautiful for a brief moment. 

     Now, this is not me saying that I have poor body image or a lack of self-confidence. I am happy with the way I look, however, my first priority is not my body. While I do care that I look presentable by the way I dress, I do not care to flaunt my body to feel beautiful. Instead, I'd rather be wrapped in my jeans and flannel, and have the wind blow across my face. That, to me, is beauty. For some, dressing up in a beautiful dress makes them feel beautiful. For others, it's when they are told they have beautiful eyes. And even for others, it's when they are kicking the soccer ball, running the track or swimming. We all have that single moment that makes us feel more beautiful than we have ever been before. And here's another secret: when God sends me my beautiful moment, I think He's trying to show me off as the love of His life. 

     People have told me I'm beautiful, like my Daddy on my prom night, or my grandma on  my First Communion. Some have told me I look great when they haven't seen me in a while, but somehow, there is not as deep as meaning as when the wind blows across my face. He, for me, is the only one that matters. When He sends the breeze, He is blowing me kisses and whispering in my ear how lucky He is. It is quite romantic, really. I love those moments. And yet, this morning at Mass, I wondered, what if God sent me a real kiss on the cheek through a man? Or if He whispered those words of "I love you" through another's voice? What if God sends me a man to fall in love with?

      Yesterday, I had my fourth marriage proposal of the year. Yes, it's true. And none of these marriage proposals were a joke; these qualified and worthy men were serious. Even in the way they asked was sincere: "May I have your hand in marriage?" "Would you marry me, for you are the one who completes me?" Even though I am quite a romantic at heart, I was never a believer in love at first sight. Yet, somehow, immediately, these young men fell in love with me. But I cannot figure out why?! Of course, I had to deny the heart warming marriage proposals for many reasons. However, those marriage proposals gave me a lot to think about, like the above posed question. Ironically, I do know it would be so nice and wonderful to have a respectful man hold my hand, kiss my cheeks or whisper "you're beautiful" in my ear. And for a quick second, during all of those marriage proposals, I wondered if I could sacrifice that. It's been four years since I've last had a boyfriend. Could it be time to test out a relationship? Or is this really God's plan for me, to be His and only His. 

      So, during my prayer at Mass this morning, I asked God that if He were to send me the one for me, if He wouldn't mind placing a giant sign on him saying "Becca, he's for you. Call him, maybe. Or marry him." He better be quite obvious with His plan for me if He's planning on sending me a man, because I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Jesus. Because He keeps giving me that gentle wind across my face.