Homeward

"I have learned that if you need to leave a place that you have lived in, 

and loved and all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it in any way 

except a slow way. Leave it the fastest way you can."

- Beryl Markham

     This is my most favorite time of the school year. While I have always been giddy at the thought of beginning a school year and while it has always been a confirmation that I am in the exact profession I was intended to be in, the end of the year, especially in High School, is the most beautiful. I teach Seniors and while I work with all levels in our school, the Seniors are so special to me. I finally have them in class, I get to spend time with them doing community service, and I get to watch them mature over the years through retreat. But there is one retreat that is most dear to me and that is our Junior Training Retreat.

      Tonight would have been the second night of our JTR. But alas, we are not there. As a result of missing one of my most favorite places, I spent some time reflecting on the goodnesses I have received this year as a result of JTR 2019. One year ago, the current senior retreat team was experiencing the love of retreat for the first time. What makes it so incredibly beautiful is that they each consciously put so much effort into wanting to be there. Because of this, they are more open, more willing, more vulnerable. I don't find myself waiting for "that moment" when it all clicks because for these students, they get it the moment they walk off the bus. And of course, I get to share a place where I was once a retreatant and then a leader and now the Campus Minister. It is a place that is so special.
      These girls become the Campus Ministry team and thus, I get to work closely with them over their senior year. We pray often together, we explore new music together, and we share the state of our hearts many times over. They are the ones that fill the office with joy, laughter and tears. They are the ones that love deep and strong. When I see them in the hallway, I know they are spreading love with every step they take. When I see them with their peers, I know they are a level above in spirit and grace (oftentimes, above adults, as well). They are special and so incredibly unique. They share magic wherever they go. It would be during this time that I would be getting ready to plan a few senior events with them - Baccalaureate Mass, Graduation Practices, Senior Recognition, Senior Luncheon, and so one. I would be praying with them before their AP tests. I would be taking my classes for walks on nice days and having instruction outside. And we would be preparing for and executing the final retreat of the year, where we would initiate the Juniors into their roles as Senior Retreat Leaders.
       I am missing them and being in school so much right now. It has been such a blessing to be home with my family, but as my husband said, "You are still losing time with others as you gain time with us." I have spent every waking hour with my family; that is the family that shares my last name. But students become like family. They become your children in a way. And sometimes they treat you the same.

    I recently looked up at the calendar on my fridge to check the date when I realized that I hadn't changed it.  It still had planned events from March. That's when we left school and thus, that's when time seemed to freeze. If I had known on March 12th, that I was never going to have my office filled with those special girls, I would have hugged each one a little tighter. I would have reminded them that they are so incredibly worthy, beautiful and loved. I would have smiled a little longer. I would have given them one last little word of wisdom. But I didn't know and neither did they. It seems so unfair in so many ways. I cannot describe the feeling other than I feel a certain kind of emptiness without my students around. I know many other teachers feel this way. Our everyday life, our life breath, was suddenly ripped from our grasp before we had any idea of what was happening. We left the places where we have lived, loved and buried our yesteryears, in a flash. And for some, ripping off the bandaid was just that; a small amount of pain and adjustment to new life. But for many, it has left a sting and an a wound and a pain. It hurts. For us and for them.
     Despite this, however, these students remind me of home - that is school. Home is not a place but the people that make it feel like home. Through their emails, there little Remind texts and their cards. They remind me that home can be felt even when we are not together. And they remind me that I am doing that for them. Home is this beautiful place we are trying so hard to maintain in this place. But we are doing it together.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLit-C4Gl8g

Life Empowers: Pro-life is Pro-Woman

"Wow! How old is your baby? Is this her first March for Life?"

"It's her second!"

 

      If you have a teenager, teach teenagers or are a teenager, you know that water bottle stickers have been all the rage recently. They are a means for a person to silently describe to others how he or she likes to be perceived. Being a high school teacher, I hopped on the bandwagon and decorated my hydro flask (*tsk tsk tsk* trust me, I am far from being a VSCO girl) a few years ago. Among my stickers that proclaim my love for nature, hiking, teaching, Canada, and Jesus, there is one sticker that I put right at the top "Pro-life=Pro-woman." Having gone to an all girl's high school and now teaching in one, I felt that I needed to state that my feminist perspective includes being Pro-Life (not just at the prenatal stage, by the way). It is a most unpopular perspective, especially as evidenced by the media, but I stand firm in my conviction.

      After discovering that the theme for the March for Life was "Life Empowers: Pro-life is Pro-woman," I knew I had to get there this year. I have gone almost every year since I was Sophomore in high school. My family has a very long history of supporting the Pro-life movement. It is in my blood and soul. But how was I going to juggle going and caring for my infant daughter? A myriad of scenarios ran through my mind until I settled on this: I would go with my dad and some of his KOC brothers and bring my baby girl. There was no question that she would come with me. She may be only 6 months old, but she will be a strong female icon. And so we suited up, packed the diaper bag a little more than usual, and headed down to DC on the morning of the March for Life. 

     The year before, I marched with my students and fellow colleagues while being about 4 months pregnant. This year, I was a baby-wearing mama with a 6 month old baby girl. I shamelessly fed her at the cathedral on a bench in the crypt which faced the altar during Mass. I snuggled her all day long as I carried her about 4 miles, rode with her on the train, navigated the crowds and pointed out to her every neat DC tourist attraction we could see. But then we stood on Constitution Avenue for about two hours, waiting for the March to begin. It was here that I found myself having so many beautiful conversations. 

      Perhaps my two favorite comments were the above quotation and another, "you don't even need a sign; she IS THE sign." I have always been so staunchly pro-life. But after feeling the growth of another human being in my womb, I find it so hard to understand this world we live in where life in the womb is not respected. I question how people can advocate for those at the border, for the environment, for the poor and homeless but not for life in the womb. I question this because those who are Pro-Life are often questioned if they, too, would stand for these things. The answer is yes. And some times I find myself saying, "I am pro-life, but not just for babies..." as if I have to defend why life in the womb is worth advocating for. I hear far too often that life in the womb isn't life. But I can tell you first hand that the child within is so full of life.

     Our dear daughter was so full of life in the womb and even more so now. I will forever vividly remember the first time I felt her move within me - I was sitting on the couch in our apartment, awaiting a snow day announcement. There she was making bubbles in the womb. Then again, when I saw her move on our ultrasounds. The technician kept telling us what a wild child we had, that she wouldn't stay still or move into the right spot. And later in our pregnancy when I got to listen to her heartbeat for an hour every week. I could do nothing more than sit in amazement as I watched my belly dance and I listened to her heartbeat simultaneously. She was so much alive in the womb. And she is so much alive now, today. I listen to her breathing, her laughter, her coughing, her coos and her giggles. She is happy and so incredibly alive. 

     After the experience of carrying the gift of life within me for 9 full months (thank you, punctual on time, child), I can only continue to advocate life in the womb even more. Pregnancy has empowered me than any other experience I could imagine. I was able to do things like I had never been able to do before. I was able to feel strong, whole, powerful, glorious and more. Motherhood has empowered me even more - my body is one that provides for my child, nourishment, comfort, safety and more. By bringing life into this world, I have been empowered. I am woman, hear me sing.

     Attending the March for Life this year was a life-changing and a life-affirming experience. Not because of any political agenda addressed, but rather because I walked with my father, my mother-in-law, my sister, my parish family and above all, my daughter. I walked with her because as a result of her life, I have been empowered. I walked so that she grows to know she is powerful. I walked so that she speaks up for those who cannot speak. I walked to bear witness by my body that life is real and true in the womb and out of the womb. 

     I have been simmering on my reflection on the March for some time now; almost three weeks. But after this weekend's Superbowl, I felt extremely compelled to write. It is no coincidence that the underlying message of the Superbowl this weekend, was also (supposedly) female empowerment. I have seen many a feminist address the issue from both perspectives, both sides giving legitimate perspective. However, I will say that for me, I saw this as a direct attack on women. With each commercial I watched that was supposedly promoting female empowerment, I felt like my intelligence was being insulted (i.e. the olay women in space commercial). And when I watched the halftime show, while holding my daughter, sitting next to my mother in law and husband, I had lots of questions. I wondered why scantily clad clothing was being promoted on national television but I can't breastfeed my baby in public without having to jump on the defensive. Tell me why we there was such purposeful outfit differences between the two headliners, the male back up singers and the children. From my perspective, this was not a few hours dedicated to the empowerment of women, but rather an attack. After feeling so empowered as a woman, a life-bearer and a mother, I then felt disgusted with the fact that I will never look like that a 50. But I don't want to. I want my body to show that it has born and given life to many children. 

     Society tells women today that in order to be empowered, we need to wear whatever we want, put on a show for others, bear children only at a designated time and place (and by all means, they must never inhibit our careers), and fight other women over things that are supposedly empowering. I am exhausted by having to defend my choice of motherhood, my choice of nourishing my child, my choice of bringing life into this world in the middle of my career, my choice of raising my daughter with feminist ideals that support the pro-life movement (and you can believe me that I will raise my sons this way, too, if God should gift me them). But the devil never makes any fight worth fighting an easy one. So with the might of the greatest feminists who have gone before me (my grandmother) and those who stand next to me (my aunts, my sisters, my students), I will fight for a pro-life nation that protects the life of the womb - the unborn, the obgyn healthcare for women, the mothers. We live in a world we cannot afford to be anything but pro-life. Our female empowerment depends on it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwBRj5-HJN4 

The Most Beautiful Thing

"I was blessed to see the most beautiful thing, 

and it wasn't the Rockies."

- Deacon T

      On the rare occasion that we attend a Vigil Mass, I always find it a bit hard to focus. I am so accustomed to starting my Sundays or Feast Days off with Mass and quiet that I find it hard to be centered after a long day of noise and activity. Despite this, New Year's Eve is one of those times we attend the vigil Mass. We were among the few and far between; I could count the amount of young people on my two hands. There were barely any families. I was finding it even harder to focus because of this small gathering of church. But God found my attention anyway. 

     Our deacon opened his homily be inviting the parishioners to reflect on the good things that happened to us in 2019. Immediately, Joe and I looked at our baby - she was, by far, the best part of 2019 for us. He then went on to describe the beautiful sights he was blessed to see on his family vacation over the summer - his favorite family trip. As he went on, however, he said, "As beautiful as these sights were, they were not the most beautiful thing." He then described the wonder and awe that encompassed him at the birth of his son. 

     He described how amazing it was to witness this but also how incredible it was to see others love on his son as they visited, learned of his birth, and more. I had tears rolling down my cheeks as I squeezed our little girl a bit tighter on my lap. Yes. This was exactly what I had experienced  and it was exactly what was flooding through my mind. Every little detail of the day Hannah was born until the moment she was placed in my arms was vividly playing. I remember every second of the day and evening. I was so happy to have that night with our new little family; just the three of us. It was perfect.

     So why did Deacon mentioned this most beautiful event? Because New Year's Eve is the Vigil of the Solemnity of Mary. He likened the experience he had to what might have been for the Holy Family. If he, and I, and others like us, are in such wonder and awe of our own babies at their births, how much more wonder and awe must have filled Mary and Joseph's hearts at the sight of THE HOLY CHILD. Did they cry at the sight of this baby child like so many have? Did they hold the Christ Child to their chests and kiss his little baby head? Did they watch this baby sleep next to them in the manger? Did Mary sleep at all during those first 24 hours? Did she worry about how she would feed him or cloth him or change him? Had Joseph ever changed or held a baby before? It was if suddenly, I was taken back to the night Christ was born via the birth of my own child.
    Imagining and reflecting on what might it have been like for the Holy Family as they welcomed the birth of their Christ Child has been a beautiful journey of my faith. It leads me not just down the wonder and awe of the birth of Christ but also His infancy. Each morning my baby girl stares, smiles and now talks at the crucifixes that are hung above her bassinet. I wholeheartedly believe that she is praying, that she KNOWS Jesus. I wonder if her image of God is that of another baby friend or if her image of God is of a friendly, bearded man who kisses her head all the time, like her daddy. Who does she see when she talks to Jesus? When I bring her to Mass with me daily, I sometimes imagine myself taking her to a baby play date...am I crazy? is it absurd? perhaps. But this is the reflection I have been led on.
   
     In light of the Golden Globes and the comments made about women achieving dreams, I can only say that this journey of Motherhood has led me down a path of utmost respect for the Mothers in the world but even more so for the Blessed Mother. She was not planning to have a baby when she did but by her yes to Divine Motherhood, her dreams and ours, for that matter, have grown beyond understanding. Motherhood has been nothing short of a blessing for me; my dreams have exploded into many, many more, knowing that I am better because of my daughter and all my future children. Motherhood is my best dream and as a result of this, my spiritual journey continues to be enlightened. Every day I am surprised at the goodness of my daughter and I am blown away by the blessings I reap through her. Mary must have felt this way, too. For if this is how I am feeling daily, complete wonder and awe of the ways my child leads me to God, Mary must have felt this even more so; her child was LITERALLY GOD.

     Thank you, God, for my daughter. Thank you for speaking to my heart daily through her. I am blessed with the most beautiful thing.

Pondering These Things

"Mary treasured up these things and

pondered them in her heart."

Luke 2:19

      "How did you get a baby who is so good in church?"

      "Your little baby is so cute; I've never seen such a young baby so well-behaved in church. She didn't even cry."

      "I love watching you love your baby during church."

      These, as well as, many other similar sentiments, are phrases I hear often after Mass on Saturdays and Sundays. Our pastor reminds me every time he sees baby girl that she is just so good and so alert during the Mass. Other parishioners comment to those making the above statements that she has been going to daily Mass since she was only one month old. I must admit, even I, myself, am shocked at how easy it is to bring her to church. I often ponder these statements - how did I get so lucky?

      Normally during Mass, I hold baby girl facing outward so she can see, hear and sense everything going on. Not only does facing her outward help me stay focused (because, let's be honest...it's so hard to not play with her cute little face), but it allows her to become aware of the space she's in. I sing in her ear when I hold her that way. I say the words of the prayers in her ear, too. She usually bops her head around, taking in her surroundings. But this past Sunday, I held her facing me, against my chest. She put her right arm against my shoulder, her head, she placed right on my chest and her left hand was in her mouth. I could hear her sucking her fingers until eventually, she stopped; she fell asleep. Later that afternoon, she fell asleep like that again on my chest. And then again, before I could put her down for bed. 

      As I rested my chin on her forehead, I was reminded of the words of a meditation I heard recently. It brought to mind the image of Mary, having just given birth to Jesus, holding, smelling and breathing with her baby. I became more and more aware of baby girl's breath in union with mine. I smelled her head and remembered Mary also smelling her baby boy. As I held her tightly, I imagined Mary holding her son close at each moment of his life. I wondered, then, if that was how Mary prayed. 

      In a conversation about prayer, recently, I was asked how I pray. Without thinking too much, I said, "by looking at my baby." Each time I look at her, watch her grow and learn about new things, or watch her eyes flutter as she dreams, I am brought to the mystery of God and God's creation. It is still so fascinating to think about my baby once being the size of a poppy seed. I am baffled by the fact that for 9 months I carried her within and within a matter of a few minutes, she was lying on my chest. I can hardly wrap my mind around this creation; she is so tiny and yet, so incredibly intricately designed. She is beauty, goodness and light; my heart swells with so much love for her each time I look into eyes. She was so worth the wait and I never want to put her down. She is my means of prayer. 

     But also, I am led deeper into prayer when I watch others interact with her. I love watching my husband, my Joseph, hold her, snuggle her, look in her eyes, and talk with her. Having loved him so much before, I love him even more now. Watching him interact with her, watching him pray, leads me deeper into the mystery. When I see how others look at her, awe at her, and enter into the mystery of her, I am reminded of the shepherds and the wise men and all those who came to visit Jesus. Mary willingly handed them her son to hold, to stare at, to talk to. She watched others interact with her son, her source of light, goodness and beauty. She watched and held these things in her heart; she pondered them. 

     There are not enough words to describe how lifted I feel when I enter into prayer by holding, watching or smelling my baby. There is no preparation like "Now, I am going to pray." It is as simple as just touching her hand; suddenly I am engulfed in mystery. She is the pathway by which I reach the divine; she is the means by which I am joined to God. There are not enough words to describe the overwhelming presence of God I feel when I watch others interact with her. She is so pure and good and beautiful; I tell her every day. Through these things, so many experience God. 

    So how did I get such a good baby; I'm not quite sure. Perhaps she, too, is entering into prayer in the sacred spaced. Perhaps she is aware of the presence of the Eucharist. Perhaps she is aware that it is her space for prayer. Perhaps she is so good because she is somehow aware that so many people are watching her and by watching her, are finding themselves in a deeper prayer. Of these things, I am not sure. But I do know that I cannot imagine a celebration of Liturgy without her now. Each time I witness the sacrifice of the Mass, I am reminded of the sacrifice of my body and how through that sacrifice, I was given the greatest gift this side of Heaven has to offer. How blessed am I to have this direct pathway to my God and how lucky I am to share her with so many! How can you not look at her and immediately be elevated in prayer?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EatBZECJ0v4

Blessed Among Women

"You were chosen by the Father, 

you were chosen for the Son.

Blessed are you among women, 

blest, in turn, all women, too."

     "It's no wonder your heart is breaking; it's the first time in 12 months that she isn't attached to you," one of my dearest colleagues said to me as she hugged me tightly on my second day back to school. 

      On the first day back to school, I cried putting her in her crib fast asleep, all the way to school, in the parking lot in my car, in the parking lot when someone welcomed me back to school, with the students who gave me so many welcoming hugs back, when any one person asked me how I was, and on the way home. On the second day back to school, I cried putting her in her crib fast asleep, part of the way to school, for a few minutes in the parking lot, not so much with people who asked me how I was and not in front of the students. On the third day back to school, I cried while pumping in the convent because I wished I was feeding my baby not the pump, in the chapel during Communion Service and during lunch when baby girl came for lunch. On the fourth day back, I cried when I left her wide awake in her crib whispering to her, telling her to go back to sleep. On the fifth day...it was the weekend and I didn't cry. 

     The church people asked me how my first week back to school was. Before I could tell them how weepy it was, I was weeping with them. My heart felt like it broke every morning, kept breaking all day long, and was only put back together when my baby was back in my arms at the end of the school day. It was an emotional pain like I had never experienced and I was battling with the why and how of it all. That's when my dear colleague made me realize that it truly was the first time my little baby was not with me in over a year. Yes, just about this time she was beginning her life in my womb. I had just "met" her 12 months prior and she was a part of me in a way no other person could be. And now, suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid (but so much worse), she was not with me. That really hit me hard. Yet, I cried out of thanksgiving for that moment and all the moments of grace I experienced last week. 

    I am surrounded by women who are mothers. While these women have been my friends during my time of employment, I felt almost instantly connected to them on a deeper level; we are moms. I am surrounded by women who are mothers and who believe that life begins at conception. I am surrounded by women who are not afraid to speak that belief and we are blessed to work in a place that allows us (and requires us) to speak in this pro-life manner. Because of this, these moms played such a integral part in my return to school. From the moment I arrived in the school parking lot, my (mom) friends were conscious of the fact that aside from it being my first day back to school, it was the first moment without my baby. They hugged me, they cried with me, they held me while I openly sobbed about missing my baby. They prayed with me, they consoled me, they held space with me. In the place where I am more than often the one who is doing this for others, they were doing it for me on a day when I so greatly needed love, peace and counsel. These women did what women do and did so with such grace; they were with me, their sister. 

   In addition to these women being mothers, they are also the mothers of many of my students. Perhaps it is because I work with their moms or maybe there is no correlation, but these students often visit in my office. I have the unique experience of being a mom and helping my students understand mom-ness, but also I am not yet old enough to be "their moms" so I can also understand their teenage girl-ness. Yet, despite being "just" teenagers, these young women are so conscious, gentle and understanding. It is because of them that I was reminded that I get to be surrounded by daughters all day long. While my favorite daughter is at home with her grandparents, I get to spend all day with the "second best" daughters. They are my reminder that one day my daughter will go to high school and hopefully have an in school mom, too. 

     I am blessed among women. I wake up in the morning to a beautiful baby girl who will one day turn into a beautiful woman with a heart so pure and gentle. I am surrounded by the love of fellow moms who check in on my throughout my days just to be with me and remind me that the pain I feel being away from my baby is real but also that I am going to be okay; they did it and I can, too. I am surrounded by daughters; young women who may eventually become mothers and aunts. I am blessed to be in this lace of love; so many separate threads that connect to make something so beautiful.Without these women, I would not have made it through the week. I would have thrown the towel in so quickly. These women are beauty, light, goodness and more. They are my friends, my sisters. I cannot thank them enough. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cN67U2lc7vQ

 

Cry Out to Jesus

"The cry of a baby is God's voice; 

never turn them away."

- Pope Francis

  

    At no surprise to anyone, babies, especially newborns, cry. They cry when they are hungry, they cry when they need a diaper change, they cry when they wake themselves up, they cry when they are fighting a nap, they cry when you just aren't doing what they want you to do. Despite knowing this, I found myself bouncing baby girl, whispering, "please don't cry, please don't cry, please don't cry," on the first day we attempted to go to daily Mass. Having been a regular at daily Mass when I was younger, I thought that maternity leave might be a great time to start getting back in the habit. While I did take my screaming baby out of church right after Communion that day, I'm glad we went back the next day.

    Within a week, we had a system down. We would get up with Daddy, eat first breakfast and take a nap during which I would take us to Mass. Baby girl would sleep the whole time in my arms, sleeping through me taking her out of her carseat, wrapping her in love blankets (more on those next week) and finding a pew. We take the last seat in the Chapel closest to the door......just in case. But for the last few weeks, baby girl has slept and all the daily Mass goers have fawned over her perfection. That was until one day last week.

     We arrived at the Chapel a little before Mass and this time, baby girl woke up when I took her out of her carseat. I thought, we can try this, but I'm not certain we will make it through Mass without a cry fest. Not even five minutes of sitting in Chapel passed before I made the decision to walk out of Chapel and walk her around to see if she would calm. Nope. This girl was hungry and she was going to let everyone know it. As I walked with her, talking to her and telling her it was going to be okay, we passed one of my favorite Italian ladies going into the Chapel. "Oh child," she said (to me, not to baby,) "she can cry in there; we don't mind." I thanked her but knew that baby girl was not going to quiet until she ate and so home we went. We returned the next day and she slept through Mass again.

     Then yesterday happened. We were sitting in our usual seat; last seat, last pew, by the door, just in case. She was sleeping when we first got there, but then someone sneezed and she started to wake. There's a sweet spot between when she first wakes up from a nap and when she starts stirring for food, during which she is bright-eyed, alert and her eyes are wandering in discovery. I prayed this would last during the remainder of Mass. Her eyes searched the Chapel, watching all the shadows dancing in the stained glass. She got the hiccups right before the consecration and the people around us turned to smile and laugh. I couldn't help but laugh, too; they were adorable. After Mass, everyone affirmed her cute hiccups. Okay, I thought, maybe we can sit through Mass while being awake. 

      Then today happened. We were sitting in our usual seat; last seat, last pew, by the door, just in case. She was very awake when we pulled into the church parking lot but she had just ate so she shouldn't be hungry, at least not for another hour. She was pretty content, watching the shadows and this time really staring at our priest. He was wearing red today, for the martyrs, Cosmos and Damian, so naturally her eyes were following him. But right about the Gospel, she got fussy and when she gets fussy, especially when she's fighting a nap, she doesn't like it if she's not being rocked. So when I sat down for the Homily, baby girl wasn't having it. I was about to give up and use our exit plan when I remembered what my favorite Italian lady said, "she can cry in here; we don't mind." So, I stood while everyone else sat or knelt and we made it through Mass, despite the fact that baby girl was a little fussy. At the end of Mass, multiple people came up to her (as they do every day) and affirmed her using her voice in Mass. They loved hearing her making noises and crying; they told her to keep praying; they smiled and gushed over how wonderful it was to have a baby with them every day. Even our priest shook her little hand after Mass and affirmed her voice. This made me happier than anyone could imagine.

     You see, I have always been on the side for babies in church, no matter how much noise they make. Jesus said, "let the Children come to me." But I have seen how some daily congregants and some priests treat the crying babies in church and subsequently their young moms. I was nervous about experiencing this and having just moved into this Parish, I wasn't sure how our priest or congregation would feel if a. I brought her to daily Mass and b. she cried or fussed during Mass. In a small Chapel, it's very easy to find the baby and her mother. There's no doubt that if you're holding a fussy baby, all eyes are on you. But I've learned in the past few days that not only do the people accept us, they also don't mind if she gets fussy every once in a while. I may not know any of their names, but they know baby girl and they seem to love her on her good days and her bad days.

      As I was rocking baby girl back and forth in the Chapel today, I kept thinking of what my favorite Italian woman said, "She can cry in here; we don't mind." It was reassuring that these people, my people, accepted my crying, fussy baby and understood that I was doing my best. But it also made me think deeper. How many of us, for any given reason, have wanted to cry during Mass. I don't know about you, but since church is my safe space, I often feel safe enough to release my overwhelming emotions and cry there. So many of us have felt ashamed or embarrassed to cry in our churches. If baby girl can cry out in Mass, why can't we? Okay, so maybe during Mass isn't the best time or place to literally cry out to Jesus, but our churches and our chapels are meant to be places where we can cry, we can talk, we can converse with Jesus. We can cry out to Jesus no matter how we feel on any given day. Instead of feeling like we shouldn't, may we embrace the wisdom of the Italian woman and bring our tears (and laughter and coos) to Jesus; we don't mind if you do. May we be as free as baby girl and feel peace in letting Jesus hear our cries. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmVxRl5bc4Y

The Mystery of Motherhood

"Sometimes when you pick your child up, you can feel the map of your own bones

beneath your hands, or smell the scent of your skin in the nape of her neck. This

is the most extraordinary thing about motherhood - finding a piece of yourself separate and

apart that all the same you could not live without."

- Jodi Picoult

     Last night, right before we were getting ready to turn off the lights and hit the hay, my husband said, "I could just stare at her all day and night; it's amazing. We helped create her." Every day, I feel like I spend hours just staring at our baby and thinking the same thing. Neither of us have said it out loud to each other before until last night. But let me assure you, I think about it every day - the mystery of this child. 

     For those who have followed this blog, you may have realized that I took a few months hiatus. Surprise, we had a baby. She has taken up every ounce of our extra time and we could not be any more blessed and grateful to our God for this gift. Right now, she is sound asleep in my lap and I keep taking breaks from thinking and typing to stare at her. She is beautiful, amazing, already so smart, incredible and such a gift. My heart swells with each moment I stare at her, interact with her and snuggle her. How did I get chosen to be this little one's mother? 

    I am grateful for my time off to be spent with her. In these days we have together we have spent many hours visiting with friends and family; especially with other new mommy friends and the many, many sisters we know and love. Sometimes this means we experience a few hours in the car together during the week. I used to love blasting music as I drove - it kept me calm while I was surrounded by maniac drivers. But now, I leave the radio off and silent, just so I can listen to her breathing and take many glances in the rear view just to watch her look around in wonder or her eyes fluttering as she sleeps. And in those moments, I can only pray "Oh my God, she is a miracle and so incredibly fascinating."

      These drives allow me much time to contemplate the great mystery of life's creation. Someone gave us a picture frame as a gift that says, "All because two people fell in love." While this is true, it is only half the story. We have kept her ultrasound pictures up on the fridge - every single one from the very first peanut looking ultrasound to her last 3D image that looks just like her (I mean duh...but like also, WOW). Each time I look at those, I think about her stages of development in the womb.  I think about how she had a heartbeat before I even knew she existed. I think about how she could hear our voices in the womb and how she shows she recognizes them now, outside the womb. I think about how we quite literally watched her grow with each picture and how we watched her move when we had those ultrasounds. I think about how every week for the last two months I got to hear her heartbeat for an hour; I didn't mind being hooked up to those monitors then. 

     And now, I look at her eyes and her cheeks and her lips and I think about how all that came from something so incredibly tiny; how we all came from that. And as much as biology could explain it, I know that there's more to it than just a fertilized egg that grew into a human baby outside the womb. God had his hands in this from every moment of her life. It was just because two people fell in love; she's here because two people fell in love with each other AND God's divine plan for our life- whatever that may turn out to be. She is a miracle because she exists and every moment, when I get to truly think about it, I remember her kicks from when she was in my womb and now I watch her kick so fiercely during tummy time. I watch her sleep with her hands by her face, just like how she appeared in every ultrasound. She was all snuggled up in the womb and she still turtles up when she snuggles on her daddy's chest. How did she have so much personality before she was even born? I cannot deny, even if I wanted to, that her life was so real before she was born. 

      We were lucky enough to have a dream birth experience with her, surrounded by great nurses and doctors. This little girl made her delivery a beautiful experience of creation. I still think, how did that happen to the three of us? How did we get so blessed to experience God's handiwork in action like we did?  When I recount those minuscule details of the day - how she started to alert of us of her arrival at 3am (and how she still, without fail, wakes up around the same time every night now...), to walking through the hallways wondering when she was going to come, to listening to her heart beating on the inside for hours only to, within minutes, hear her heartbeat on the outside for the first time - I am overwhelmed by the mystery of human creation. It's not just that God gave her blue eyes, ten tiny fingers and toes, and a precious button nose; it's that this bundle of joy started out as a dream quite literally the size of a peppercorn at her beginning and now she's this. 

    As much as I don't want her to grow, because I love how tiny and precious she is, I am in awe of the miracle that she is. Day by day, it doesn't seem like she gets much bigger, but when we hit milestones like having to size up in diapers or buy new jammies because she is bursting out of her old ones, I am fascinated that one day, this tiny human might have her own tiny humans. I am in awe of the fact that not only will we watch her learn letters and numbers, or discover her likes and dislikes, but we will also watch her fall in love and become a being all unto her own. As my MIL told me, if I didn't watch Joe grow up, I wouldn't have you. It's amazing; this journey of parenthood. 

     I've read so many articles on being told to enjoy it while it lasts but coming from mothers who find it difficult to do so when the baby is screaming or fussy or it's frustrating to not be able to be your own person anymore, because there's always a tiny human attached to you. Maybe it's my blessing, and I'm trying not to brag, but I am in love every second; even when she wakes me up in the middle of the night or poops all over her outfit for the 5th time in one day. If anything it means she is alive, she is with me and she is a gift from God. 

      Aside from all of this absolutely in love, mushy gushy feelings about my baby, I have also discovered a whole new love for my husband. I had no doubt in my mind that he would become a great daddy. I love the moments I get to witness and overhear when he is with her. Whether it's the moments when I hear him singing to her while he changes her diaper or when he's walking her around the house when she's fussy saying, "Daddy is here; you are safe," over and over, I am filled with happiness. He has never failed me as my husband and now, he is blossoming into an amazing father. We laugh together about the things we didn't know, we experience frustrations together when we can't figure out why she's upset, but my favorite thing to do together with him is just watch her. I have fallen more in love every day than I ever thought possible. As much as I thought I loved him then, I love him even more. He loves staring at her, wondering at her creation, and I love watching him watch her and fall in love with her. I never thought I could love more than I already did, but I was happily proven wrong. It's a great mystery: the creation of life and how one's life, as a result of another life created, continues to grow, form and be blessed in all the surprising ways. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8Tgw0V2XkQ

New Year, Better Me

"Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching,

and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be.

I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into better shape."

- Charles Dickens, "Great Expectations"

      Almost every year I write a reflection on my goals for the new year. It seems year after year, people consistently make goals they cannot keep in an effort to be happier, be healthier and so on, only to be disappointed by themselves within a few weeks. Last year, newly married and happier than ever, I did not make any resolutions or goals and honestly, I think I've been happier this year than any other year. But that's not to say there were not challenges that we faced together. Looking back, however, I can say that 2018 was over all good to me. 

      For one, we celebrated a lot of firsts: first (married) Easter, first (married) 4th of July, first (married) Thanksgiving and so on. We had a number of adventures, but didn't go hiking nearly as much as we had before. Maybe that's because sometimes spending the day inside watching movies or reading is better. But we also hiked one of our toughest hikes at Glen Onoko ... in the SNOW! We laughed a lot, cried a lot and made a lot of memories. We revisited our favorite campsites like Nockamixon and Niagara Falls. We even took our dog to Canada for the first time. Needless to say, he didn't really know the difference. We renewed our lease on our apartment and explored our new neighborhood more finding some of our favorite places like Conshocken Brew Pub, the outlets, Zwahlen's ice cream and the Schuylkill River Trail (and learned how to spell it, too!). We never made it to the beach, but I was finally able to show my favorite person one of my favorite places: Pipestem, WV while we both chaperoned a school service trip. Deeper friendships were made and our relationship with God grew from lots of stretching. We had ups and downs. But looking back, we had a pretty good full year married. 

      So today, when one of my students asked me if I made any new year's resolutions, I had to admit that on New Year's Eve, we did not really make one. Instead, we barely made it to the ball drop as we tried to figure out how to play the card version of Oregon Trail. This is, indeed, no small feat for the exhausted. But I thought about it a little and after listening to the resolutions of my students, I came to the conclusion that I am not going to let anyone else inhibit my happiness. I vow to not let anyone else's bad mood inhibit my good mood. I vow to not let someone else's insecurities rob me of my own securities. I promise to not scroll through Facebook and Instragram and continuously compare my life story to the life stories of others; I am where I am supposed to be for a reason, regardless of the challenges and suffering I have endured. And I promise to let God remain in control, because it is when I fail to do this that I can frustrated, upset and angry. 

     I find that New Year's is a good time to reflect on where one has been through the year. I cannot ignore the ups and downs of this year. But what I have, perhaps, learned the most and overwhelmingly so is that God is continuously with me on the journey. And that while God cannot be physically with me, God can send people into my life to help be the face of God for me and journey with me. God has never left me in the bad times and has rejoiced with me in every good time. While there were times when I was unsure of God's presence, God very quickly showed Godself to me. God was always there. 

     In addition, New Year's is a time to allow reflection for how we can become better versions of ourselves. So I pray that God gives me the opportunities to be more loving, more caring, more gentle and to be a better listener. In all things, may I model the Blessed Mother, and may I become even more aware of God's presence in my life. I already know that 2019 will be another year of challenge, wonder and awe. I am excited. God is with me. And I know that Joe and I will have many, many more adventures. In this year of Grace, I am sure that grace will be experienced.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bR9UsXgIAjg

An Anniversary of Feast Day

"Now, we will stand and profess our faith. 

Then, we will pray with our petitions.

And then, we will go to a wedding."

- Fr. McCabe

Photo Courtesy of : The Photo People 

       December 8, 2018 was much different than December 8, 2017. And yet, there were many similarities. We spent our morning in church, surrounded by friends and family and sisters, and according to the celebrant, we were attending a wedding. As I sat with my husband of now one year in our college chapel on our University Feast Day, Dec 8, 2018, I felt the same overwhelming bliss I had felt a year ago on that day. I remember being asked when I was an undergraduate student, what my favorite university tradition was. While for others it may have been Carol Night, 100 Nights celebration or Senior Ball, my answer was always Feast Day. In it's most simple way, classes were cancelled, a celebratory Mass was said, there was a huge lunch in the cafeteria, and it was always the day my friends and I began our Christmas shopping. But one of the best moments of that day, was for only a few moments after the homily in Mass, the IHM Sisters renewed their vows in front of the entire congregation. And that, my friends, was the most beautiful moment. 

       Every year when I witnessed this beautiful profession of love, I would be moved to tears. The beauty overwhelmed me. It was as if all was standing still, all the saints were watching, the chorus of angels paused for a brief moment, and silence fell upon Heaven and Earth. It is a moment second only to how I imagine the moments immediately after the birth of Christ were spent. Silent, peaceful, all was watching. And I remember always thinking. Will I feel this way when I say my vows? Will I be overwhelmed with beauty and joy and goodness? I can now say, yes. Yes, I was. And how beautiful it is to share this day with the Sisters every year. 

      We were blessed to be able to attend Feast Day, a day that is always celebrated by Mighty Macs everywhere, on campus this year. Surrounded, just as we had been one year before, by the Sisters. Mother Mary, a woman after whom I attempt day after day to model my life, was shining as the most beautiful example of love. And of course, there was my favorite hymn, the Immaculata Conceptio. We spent the first half of Mass listening to the same readings that were used at our wedding, remembering back to sitting next to each other on the altar. These readings are ones with which we are so familiar, they are written on our hearts. Ones that we share with the Sisters every year. How blessed are we. 

      I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge one of the greatest Feast Day homilies I have ever heard. Because it was father's homily about true love as emulated by the sisters that lead me on a path of reflection much deeper for the rest of Mass. Father spoke about true love in ways so beautiful and I could not help but think God picked those words for us. Yet the more father spoke of the truest type of love as emulated by the Sisters, I could not help but agree wholeheartedly. Often it's little girls, who after having gone to many weddings of aunts, uncles, cousins and more, that they begin to dream of their own wedding. But for me, I was always enamored by the Sisters' renewal of vows. Somehow, deep in my heart, I was aware of the fact that this is a love deeper than any love I had witnessed at the altar. And often, young engaged couples are encouraged to look toward couples in their lives who have married for a long time for support and guidance. They are asked who has shown them true love and often the result is their parents or grandparents. But after father's homily, I began reflecting on who had really taught Joe and I how to love deeply and truly. 

     Our parents, of course, have given us great examples of love - persevering in times of challenge and struggle and rejoicing in moments of success. Our grandparents, too, have given us examples of deep, true love. There are even more couples in our families we could easily look to for longevity of marriage, true love and devotion. These people filled my heart as I considered who has taught Joe and I true love. But for each of us, these examples of true love had been known only to one of us for a while. Then, as we dated, became engaged and prepared for marriage, they became known to each of us. But there is one group of people who both of us had known for the same amount of time who has also taught us true love and we were reminded of that on Saturday at Mass. 

     Our Sisters, who had consistently shown us love and mercy on tests, papers, in work study positions, in extracurricular activities, and just day to day life. Their witness was a consistent example in our lives ever since both of us began undergrad. For years, we had witnessed them show love in the most simple and yet, most beautiful ways; through prayer, lifestyle and devotion to God and Mary. They have been an example for us both and each year, on our anniversary, we are reminded of that example of love and how we must put that love into action for each other. Every year we were blessed to witness their renewal of vows. Last year, they witnessed our profession of vows to one another. And this year, we renewed our vows together; the sisters by their words and witness and us by our silent prayer in our hearts. 

      One year has flown by. And yet, it has also seemed as if time has stood still. I have heard that time seemingly does not exist when you are with the one you love. You can blink and suddenly 50 years have flown by. Our year has held adventure, love, bliss, wonder, amazement, struggle, challenge and more. But above all, it has held depth of companionship. I have learned more about Joe and more about myself in this one year than I feel I have ever learned about us. We have learned about the truth of support for each other, more about selflessness, more about dedication to each other and  of course, how to plan meals around wacky schedules, how to make sure we are spending time living in the moment and taking time to just be with one another without any plans. This has been a year of learning, loving and so much more. But above all, despite the inevitable challenges, I have been consistently aware that we are blessed. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZpTMZy65y8

   

Psalm 139 and Creative Hope

"The jar of flour did not go empty, 

nor the jug of oil run dry."

- 1 Kings 17:16

    
      November 11, 2018 - a day sandwiched between IHM Founder's Day and Immaculata University Charter Day (as well as the 100th celebration of Armistice Day). I "forgot" this by which I mean, I was aware that Saturday and Monday were days of celebration for my IHM sisters, but did not use these days as motivation for my joining them for Mass at the IHM Motherhouse with my husband. No, quite honestly, I was there because I had a three hour Alumni Board meeting ahead of me and figured I could see some of my friends at Mass beforehand. Besides, nothing quite beats the feeling of being home in a beautiful prayerful space.

    As the presider mentioned in his homily, the readings of Sunday focused on the widows of Scripture.  The first reading from 1 Kings told the story of Elijah who requested bread and water from a widow who was in the process of giving her last food and drink to her son. The Gospel focused on the widow who gave her last coin - which, in turn, allows Jesus to say that she was the one who gave the most; not in quantity but rather in quality of sacrifice. During Mass and then later during Adoration, I began to reflect on how perfect these readings were to be on the day sandwiched between two days of importance. For me and my heart, these were readings that gave true definition to what it meant to have creative hope, an aspect of the charism of the IHMs.
     Creative Hope is a concept I have considered, reflected upon and even have written about numerous times. It is the part of the IHM Charism that I hold most dear. I cannot really narrow it down to a time or an experience that really made me believe in Creative Hope. But rather, it was a series of every day experiences, during which I watched many Sisters consider numerous challenges and how each one of them could use Creative Hope, that is, a hope that works creatively with God toward an accomplishment of God's Will. Creative Hope became for me, an opportunity to be real and honest with God, giving to God my greatest hopes but also allowing God to speak God's perspective and how I could be of use in the accomplishment of God's Will. Most particularly, this would happen during a time when there seems to be no other options - this is the end of the road for one thing or another.
     In the readings, these two women were at the end of the jars and jugs. They had no more to give than the last of it. Their defeat was obvious as they spoke to the others in the stories - I have nothing else to give, my well is dry, I am at the end of the road. I felt that many Sisters have felt this as well - moments of despair and defeat. I thought specifically of Mother Camilla as she asked not one, not two, but seven farmers for land on which she could build the University. Did she feel defeated? Did she experience deep despair in her prayer life? Did she say to the last farmer, "this is it, this is the last place I can go before I give up?" Or did Mother Theresa Maxis have many moments of desperation when she laid herself down at the foot of the cross after her experiences of pain, exclusion and perhaps lack of peace and affirmation in her vocation as a religious woman? I can imagine these women, just as the widows in Scripture, experiencing the same feelings and yet, because of their charism of Creative Hope, also finding peace in resting that God would lead them to God's Will in a way unthought of by themselves.
     As I continued my time in Adoration, I found myself a friend in these women. I had been neglecting feelings and emotions of despair in my life. I had ignored the fact that I have been feeling lost and lonely in my relationship with God; that somehow, during my person trials, God was not there with me. My experience of self was plummeting because I felt so incredibly unworthy of God's Love and the trying events in my life were happening because of something I did; I deserved them.

     Flash forward to Sunday evening. I was sitting on the couch, having just finished dinner with my husband. Cooking, mind you, clears my head and allows me a moment of happiness. Cooking and baking, have become my newest outlet. At any rate, we decided to catch up on the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy, a guilty pleasure, for sure. The episode ends and I suddenly hear one of my favorite Christian artist playing in the background of the closing scenes. The day before, when I was driving alone to a Bridal Shower, I had the album on. Sometimes music catches me by surprise - I can be singing along and suddenly, the depth of lyrics hits me deep and I am embracing tears falling down my face. The same song in the episode was the song that the day before had me sobbing in the car alone. So naturally, I was moved again to tears and yes, the type of sobbing that makes even water proof mascara run. In one swift movement, my husband's arms were wrapped around me.
     As a Campus Minister, I am seemingly expected to have it together in terms of faith. I know faith, I live faith, and by all means, I should have a good relationship with God. But I have been going through a period of time where my experience of God is that I show up at Church, I go to Mass, I pray for the grace to keep going, but I'm still kind of upset with God. We aren't really on speaking terms right now. I guess that makes me real and authentic, but to be honest, I don't like it. I'd rather be talking with God consistently and maintaining a good relationship. But recently, I've been lost in despair, feeling quite lonely and often feeling defeated. I've felt this way because it didn't seem like God was actually with me in these moments of hardship or that God gave me these challenges that I just couldn't handle. I had given God my last and this was the end.
      But yesterday, I realized I had been failing to see God in my husband. As he wrapped his arms around me, I realized God had been with me, because who else had been going through these trials with me other than my husband? I realized, too, that there were others in my life who saw that I was experiencing hardship and have gone out of their way to make sure they were simply there for me. Of course, I realized, too, the importance of my students who never fail to make me laugh and give me hugs randomly on days that they don't even know I need it the most. Like the women of Scripture, Mother Camilla and Mother Theresa Maxis, I had experienced giving my last. There's no saying if I'm out of this feeling quite yet. But if it took the woman in Kings a whole year to finally get herself in a good place, God will be patient with me. I have been reminded again to hope creatively - to live in hope not despair and to allow myself to be creatively formed to do God's will. I have been rescued.

What if God is on Social Media?

"Christ has no online presence but yours.

No blog, no Facebook post on earth but yours.

Yours are the tweets through which love touches the world.

Yours are the post through which the Gospel is spread.

Yours are the updates through which God blesses the world.

Christ has no online presence but yours."

- Sr. Rose Pacatte, FSP

     Last week, I had the blessed opportunity to present a portfolio of all my best work from my graduate studies to a prestigious board of professors and doctors of Theology. As I was reviewing all of my best work, I was surprised at the common theme throughout my writing: women's role in the Catholic Church. Women, in general, have been the spotlight in almost every recent big news coverage. Feminism has been given plenty of new definitions and yet, there are still a plethora of women who are still struggling to find their place in it all. I am a millennial, I am part of the Social Media generation, and I am a firsthand witness to the brokenness of the world.
     In discussing this common theme, I was ask by the board to consider, given all that I have learned, discovered and researched, how faith informs culture and vice versa. In reflecting on this, I found myself writing away at how faith can heal and reconcile the brokenness of the world. I focused on my role as Campus Minister at an all girls' school and the conversations I often am privy, too. Students express brokenness of all kinds, sometimes without even recognizing themselves doing so. My students are stressed out by the world of academia, they feel extreme pressures to perform according to unwritten codes of Instagram and Visco, they are inundated with standards presented to them by the media, they are constantly told what they should be like, not appreciated for the truth of what they already are like. The truth is, their experience of culture is very broken. And so the experience of faith, which I can give to them via retreats, Liturgies, Sacramental opportunities and more, play a huge part in the beginning of repairing the effects of that brokenness in their lives. I know this because they express this to me.
     As I look back, I am critical of my response. I only chose to defend how faith can inform culture, specifically through the lens of reparation, reconciliation and healing. At the end of my presentation, one of my professors encouraged me to consider how culture might inform faith in the same way, especially given the fact that the entirety of my presentation focused on women's role in the Church. I have been thinking of this challenge to consider faith's brokenness and how culture might influence it. I have also been side by side considering what is happening in our secular world today, especially for women. Should these topics be compartmentalized or rather, can they even be separated from one another. As a human being who is both woman and Catholic, I feel torn. And yet, perhaps I should be uplifted.

       In addition to these thoughts rattling around in my brain and my making sense of them, I attended the annual Edith Stein Lecture at my alma mater, Immaculata University. This lecture has been taking place over a number of years and each year, I feel my faith being stretched in beautiful ways. Last night's topic was "Faith and Social Media," and the speaker was a Daughter of Saint Paul, S. Rose Pacatte. She approached the topic, not as a non-millennial whose life is seemingly disrupted by the use of Social Media, as many who came before me are. But rather, she focused on how one could utilize Social Media to spread the Gospel. It was then that I started to connect the dots. Catholicism and those in the older generations have contributed the brokenness of culture to the constant use of Social Media. Students don't speak to one another, there's not place for Social Media during Mass and because of this, Social Media has contributed highly, if not wholly, to the complete disarray of our world. One could use many examples to back up this theory. And yet, while she did not say it, as S. Rose was speaking, I felt that she very easily could have said that faith is broken, just as much as culture.
     It may be controversial to say, but from my personal perspective, I can very easily see the brokenness of my faith. I have seen and am still seeing many of my peers leaving the church. They say there is no room for women in the Church. They question how one can continue to be a faithful Catholic in light of the sexual abuse scandal. They express concern for how millennials can practice a faith that seems to have nothing to support their experience of culture. I hear them. I see exactly what they say. And yet, if my faith hadn't saved me from the brokenness of our culture when it did, I would be in the same position. But I am not. When I say I am Catholic, others wonder how I can still be one. When I say I am a feminist, others have painted a picture of me that certainly does not line up with my Catholic faith. When I say I am a Catholic feminist, others roll their eyes in confusion - how can I be both?
     Faith, as I have said, was integral in my filtering of culture. It allowed me to heal the confusion within: when faith tells me one thing and culture says another, which do I choose? Faith gave me the hope that there is room for women theologians, for deeper women's spirituality, for women's involvement in the rearing of Mother Church. Faith gave me the understanding I would need to accept culture for the goodness it had but also to disregard its evil. So now, here I am on the flip-side. I am not blind to the brokenness I see inside my own faith structure; I am more privy to it because I am within. But I am also outside of the faith, when I view the untruths of secular culture. So is there a place for me? And is there a place for Social Media to heal our broken faith? Last night's lecture told me yes. More than ever before there is a place.
     S. Rose quoted her community's founder and said, "if the Church is not there, we do not exist" in reference to Social Media. I have never been bashful about posting my Catholic practices on Social Media, I mean honestly, I've had this blog for what seems like one hundred years. But most people my age are not reading blogs. They are viewing images on Instagram and content on Facebook. In my humble opinion, Twitter is basically dead and if not, will be by the end of this presidency (no one cares that much). I have often "checked in" at church (because, yes Dad, I am still attending weekly Mass). I have posted uplifting messages in support of peers who are going through a hard time. I have shared posts by my home parish, by religious communities or by technological religious figureheads. I have re-tweeted, re-grammed and shared a billion things. Yet, is it enough. Am I only scratching the surface of allowing culture and my use of Social Media to help mend the brokenness of my faith.
     In the end, I came to the conclusion that no, I am not doing enough. I can do so much better with my posts. I have such a unique position in the sense that I love my faith, despite the Church's faults, because my experiences are much different than those who have seemingly be marginalized for a plethora of reasons. I must share the goodness of the Church and I can do it via the venues my peers use on the daily. I can use Social Media as a forum for discussion and faith-formation. I fill my instagram story with more than images of my dog and my husband (and also my baking adventures....). And the thing I think I must be better at doing is not only expressing the fact that I am praying for others, but asking publicly for prayer. I am strong, but I am also weak. I need the support as much as I can give it.
     I have no one hundred percent come to the conclusion of the relationship between faith and culture, mostly because I am living in it as it grows and changes. But I do feel as if now, culture can and should inform faith, especially via the venues of social media. As broken as our culture is, our faith is also broken. But as beautiful as our faith can be, so also can our use of social media be. Be the positive driving force today. And please, if you have the chance, prayer for me, too.

Blessed Joseph, Her Spouse

"Have mercy on us we pray, 

that with the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, 

with Blessed Joseph, Her Spouse...

we may praise and glorify you, through your son, Jesus Christ."

- Eucharistic Prayer II, Roman Missal

 

      Look at this man. Look how he looks at me. Look how he is trying to hard to make me laugh (that is, indeed a foam hat, he borrowed from a photo booth). But also, look how he is holding me gently, singing to me the words of a great song and never once taking his eyes off me. This is blessed Joseph. 

     I overheard some women talking about their husbands today. At first it was gentle stories, "my husband does this...my husband does that." I tell stories like that. My husband makes me laugh. My husband moves stuff around in our kitchen to make it more organized forgetting I'm half a foot shorter than he is. My husband leaves his things in my car. My husband does a lot of things. But then the women started complaining about their husbands. Other women were supporting the flabbergasted and complaining woman in her complaints of her husband. Then the next woman complained about her husband. Then the next woman complained about her husband. Then the next woman complained about her husband. In the five minutes I was in the same room, I wanted nothing more to run out.

     Here's the thing. Husbands can do annoying things, but they aren't annoying. Yes, there are times when I get flustered when the coffee grounds are higher than I can reach in their new locations; but more so it makes me laugh. I have to go get him to get it down for me; it makes me need him. I think he does it on purpose. He likes to be needed. So, I get it; husbands can do annoying things. But looking through a negative lens will not help us; it will not help our husbands and it certainly will not do good for our marriages. 

      When I was younger, I used to pray for Eucharistic Prayer II because it was the shortest. I was an altar server and yes, sometimes I tried to pre-set the Missal for EPII. Oops. But now I hope the priest uses EPII because of the above quotation. Not only is it an invocation for blessed Mary and Joseph as a reminder of the beauty of marriage, but it is also a direct reminder that my husband, Joseph, is indeed Blessed. No, not because he's married to me (although, he would say that). But rather, because he is full of goodness and kindness and care for me. He is blessed because God has made him so. And because he is blessed, he deserves only the most dignified treatment as my husband.  And when I hear the EPII being said, I look up at my husband, focused on the altar, and smile. He is Joseph, blessed Joseph, my spouse. Every Sunday, I am lucky enough to be reminded my husband is special in the context of the Mass.

     Often in these past 9 months, I have been asked: "How's married life?" And I usually answer, "It's a dream." People laugh, but that's the truth. It is a dream, with all the ups and downs and challenges no one could ever prepare me for. People have responded to me by telling me I am still in the honeymoon phase, that things will change, and things will be mundane and we will be bored of each other. But I hope not. And in my hoping not, I remind myself that we have control over that. No one ever said marriage was going to be easy; but marrying the right man makes the hardships easier to bear. And among all my blessings, I count blessed Joseph twice. 

    So ladies, in the most aggravating moments, remember why you fell in love with your husbands. Remember how blessed he is, to be married to you, and because he is a child of God. Try to find a reason to laugh at the situation i.e. he's taller than me and likes to help me reach! Try to ease the frustration by considering why your husband may have done something (was he tired? did he think he was helping?). And finally, if you really can't do any of that, at least don't complain about him with your girlfriends. It's not fair to him, it's not fair to the other absent husbands, and it's not going to do anything but tear your marriage down some piece by piece. And next time you hear EPII, instead of Blessed Joseph, put in your husband's name. One little prayer can do a lot of wonders! 

Look at this man. Look at how he looks at me. Listen to me when I tell you how he comes into the kitchen and picks me up as I am preparing dinner just to twirl me around and give me a kiss on the forehead. Listen to me when I tell you how before he leaves for work in the morning, he comes back into our bedroom and tucks me in for the extra fifteen minutes I get to lay there. Listen to me when I tell you how he carries more groceries than he can handle just so I won't. Listen to me as I tell you how he says the funniest stories or ideas or jokes. Listen to me when I tell you, I feel safest in his arms because of his blessed strength. This is blessed Joseph, my Spouse. 

See Me, Be With Me

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak, 

knits up in the overwrought heart and bids it break."

- William Shakespeare, Macbeth

"See Me - Tahlequah" - Lori Christopher

     A few weeks ago, I saw this image surface on social media. I was encapsulated by it. I had heard the story of the Mother Orca carrying her deceased baby for over 10 days. This was an action that many Orcas have done, but never for this long. Science was explaining the hardship behind this event: Orcas were not surviving birth, Orcas are becoming fewer and fewer, but Orcas also grieve these things. Science was telling, but not nearly as telling as the follow-up stories that inspired this image. 

     Tahlequah, the mother Orca, had been carrying her baby to keep her baby afloat. Without doing this, the baby would sink to the ocean floor. She was not yet ready to let go of her baby or of her grief. Yet, this process was holding her back (she wasn't able to swim as fast), it was using up all her energy. Grief does this to us. It holds us down for a while. It exhausts us. In the grief I have experienced, I can look back and acknowledge that the tears and the sadness often lead me to sleep or the desperate need for a nap. I can acknowledge that my grief kept me from moving on. Grief. I can name it. I can see it. I can acknowledge how it has held me back. 

     In her process of mourning, Tahlequah was strong (she carried this baby for so long). Yet, she was also weakened. The female Orcas in her Pod began to take turns and carry her baby for her. Giving her a break from carrying her grief. Yet the important thing to note is that they never took her baby away from her; they never took away the grief. They simply carried her grief for a while. Tahlequah's grief was holding her back and draining of her energy, but her Pod did not act as if she needed to get over it. Instead they allowed her to grieve and in doing so, helped her grieve instead of helping her get over it. 

    Eventually, after many days of mourning, grieving and carrying the grief, Tahlequah laid her baby to rest. When she was ready, her pod helped her do so. When she was ready....her pod helped her do so. 

      Grief is no stranger to me. I think I can thank my Dad for that; he never hid grief from us as kids. I can remember going to many funerals as a children and teenager, wondering why, especially if I did not know the person well. That was before I understood the Catholic call to "Bury the Dead." My Dad didn't hide his tears when he buried a friend or a family member. He was not afraid to show grief. And in that, we learned how to grieve. We didn't hide it; from others or from ourselves. And so grief is no stranger to me. I have let grief come and sit for a while. I have embraced grief, just as I would a dear friend. I have allowed myself the beauty of tears and the gift of grief. However, this is not often a concept we can say we know or have seen. 

     During a particularly trying time in my life, I went back to Scripture and began reading the stories of women in the Bible who have experienced pain, heartache, and worse. I noticed two things: it is rare that this women are said to have cried and it is rare that these women were given the words to express their grief. Many women in Scripture have lost their children and yet, they are not given that option to grieve. Many women have suffered innumerable heartache and physical pain; they do not cry. I believe the writers left those parts out, because as a woman who knows many women, we certainly mourn and cry and grieve. Yet, even today it seems, women are not given the chance to do these things (and neither are men, for that matter). 

     This enraged me. I was looking for comfort among the women of Scripture. I found similar pain and heartache. Yet, I was overwhelmed with tears and sadness and wanting to curl up in a ball and not move from the safety of my fortress of blankets and pillows. I began to feel weak; these women did not do this, so why am I? But quickly, I stopped myself from swimming in those thoughts. I was not weak; these women were not overtly strong for not crying. They were not given the chance; so I must mourn now for them and with them. I must conjoin my heartache with theirs. And when I saw this image, I thought back to these reflections. This is TRUTH. 

     The story of Tahlequah gives us many reflections but two that are particularly important to me. First: the Orcas knew the power of grieving. The never once, in their carrying of the calf, showed disregard for Tahlequah's grief; they did not toss it aside or get rid of it for her. She needed her grief in order to make sense of things; she needed to carry it for a while and be with it. She needed to cry and mourn and lament. Her sisters knew this and allowed her to do so. We must acknowledge grief; we must sit with it and allow it to change us. If we hold onto it and keep it in and never acknowledge it, it will break our hearts much later. When we are sad, cry. Be not afraid to embrace the pain and the tears. It is a part of us, especially for women, and we are stronger having expressed grief. When we embrace our pain, we are better as a result. Invite grief in. But do not let it stay too long. 

     And secondly, as women, we must be there for each other. And we must not dismiss the beauty of another's pain. Many people are afraid of grief and in moments of grief, theirs or another's, they tend to shush it, push it aside and say things like, "it's okay, you will get over it, you will move on." In the end, yes, we will move on but not as we had before; there will be something missing. In those moments of grief, if we choose to embrace it, we do not want to move on, we do not want to get over it. We want to sit with it; we want to be sad. And the best thing to do in those moments is to not speak at all. Instead, simply hold another's grief. Perhaps that means holding their hand, embracing them in a deep hug, or holding them in your arms. Connecting your hands or arms with them allows you to breathe together, one with pain and heartache, the other holding it. Just as the Orcas surrounding Tahlequah held her grief, we must hold each others. The Orcas did not, in any way, force Tahlequah to move on quicker than she was ready; they journeyed with her for 17 days. They did not speak to her of shared experience; they simply traveled with her until she was ready to let go of her grief. 

     There are women who have done this for me; who have been my pod. I know that I can go to them and I do not have to say a word for them to know that all they need to do for me is to hold me and sit with me while I grieve. So many instances have these women, upon meeting me, asked me how I was and I was unable to respond because tears had filled my eyes and choked my words. They simply open their arms for me. And there have been many times when I have been called upon to do this for others. Despite being a writer, I know that at times, the best thing to say is nothing. I am constantly telling my students, the women of courage who surround me daily, that when they are sad, or frustrated, or grieving, to let themselves feel it. And I sit with them; I let them cry or vent or whatever they need. We sit together, we carry each other. This is what being a woman is all about. Seeing each other and simply being with each other in times of need.