Down By The River

"But I love Your feet 

only because they walked 

upon the earth and upon 

the wind and upon the waters 

until They found me."

- "Your Feet," Pablo Neruda

     I feel the closest to God on two occasions: when I'm walking barefoot on the earth (in particular near water) and during Lent/Holy Week/Easter. On Tuesday, when I was late for class because I was too busy bonding with Sister Cathy, she told me to find the perfect spot for my Resurrection cup of coffee. I was told at the beginning of Lent that if I was being a cross to bear for others due to my Lenten sacrifice, I must give up giving up what I gave up for Lent. All of this being said, I should have felt extremely close to God these past forty days and especially during these past few days of Triduum. 

     Maybe you remember how Lent started: bitter cold in the first week of March. We had just celebrated the feast of St. Katherine Drexel and I spent the weekend before in Kensington for our Alternate Spring Break Weekend. These two events, while simple in nature, played a HUGE part in my decision and prayer for how I was going to spend the forty days of Lent. While in Kensington, I met a man whose foot was wrapped in a plastic, black trash bag and was using crutches to get from place to place. As I sat in my corner in the "dining room" with my new friends, I also watched this man. He couldn't have been much older than me, maybe only a few years. He sat weary, somewhat withdrawn. Thomas was his name and I remember thinking then, how much he looked like Jesus on His way to Calvary. Later, when we were sharing around the dinner table did I learn that this man had gotten frost bite on his foot because he didn't have proper shoes for the harsh winter that had been pummeling the Northeast this year. 

     On Sunday, I woke up early and drove home from school to the convent. Shocking, I know, that the first place I would go would be a convent and not my own house. But in truth, this convent was a home to my heart. It was the feast day of St. Katherine Drexel and there was a special Mass in her honor at the Shrine (and the convent of many of my beloved SBS Sisters). As a kid, I remember always being fascinated by the articles of clothing worn by Katie D. Most fascinating were her habit, which shows how tiny of a woman she was (if I stand next to the window casing, I line up perfectly with where her face would have peeked out from behind her veil), and her shoes, the only pair she ever wore. Katie D was a simple woman. The story about her shoes goes (loosely) like this: she had one pair of shoes and whenever they would start to fall apart, she would take a needle and thread to them so as to sew the leather back together. They were perfectly find in her mind and so she didn't need a new pair. Besides why replace that which can be fixed? On her feast day, I allowed myself a visit to the crypt where her habit and shoes are on display for the public. As I looked at Katie D's shoes, I remembered Thomas and then I looked at my own feet, protected by some pair of shoes. I counted my blessings.

      In a few days, I would be struggling with what on earth I was to give up for Lent. I knew I was going to give up coffee, but that was a tradition. I needed something else to do. I searched the internet for suggestions and found something that sparked my interest: shoes. Hmm...could I really give up shoes? Especially since it was the dead of winter in the Northeast and when I would be going to Minnesota in a few days? Well, no. I couldn't exactly give up my shoes BUT I could give up all my shoes but one pair. I have often been told that the hardest thing for me when I enter the convent will be giving up my fashion sense (although some might argue that I don't have one). I never really thought about how many pairs of shoes I owned, but when I looked in my closet to start packing for Minnesota, I realized that I actually might have a problem. Three pairs of boots, multiple pairs of flats and sandals, some heels, etc. So, I packed my bag, and put a single pair of shoes on my feet: my black flip flops. As I was standing at the train station getting ready to head to the airport, my mother called me crazy when she saw my feet. I just laughed. I couldn't wait to hear what the nuns had to say.

      I flew into Chicago, which, as you may know, is always slightly colder than good ol' PA. When I landed, my AE, who loves flip flops as much as me, said she hoped I had another pair of shoes in my bag. I just laughed. Nope. The next morning, when I was boarding the plane to Minnesota with Sister Angela, she, too, mentioned a hope of another pair of shoes in my bag. Again, I laughed. When we landed, I noticed lots of snow and ice on the ground. Well, this will be interesting, I thought to myself. I didn't even pack another pair of "just in case" shoes. I was going big or going home. 

     Those first few days of Lent in Minnesota were hard, I must admit. There was snow everywhere but lucky for me, it was the first few days above freezing Minnesota had seen all winter. Sister Angela got used to my shoeless feet and shrugged every time another Sister at the NCSW Conference asked me if my feet were cold and/or if I was crazy. I laughed. I always answered no. But no one ever really asked me why I wasn't wearing my shoes. I was still at the point in Lent where I wasn't sure what my bigger sacrifice was: not wearing shoes OR the nuns harassing me about my feet. At that moment I was stuck in the middle. There was lots of snow on the ground and there were a lot of nuns near by. But actually, it hadn't been that bad. First week of Lent with no shoes and no coffee was actually a breeze (not a winter wind). 

      I headed back to school after my adventure to Minnesota and was so blessed to experience my first Lent 2014 daily Mass in Marian chapel...that is, the chapel in the building in which I live. I wore my flip flops like a champ down the halls and through Mass. After Mass, Sister Monica Joseph asked if my feet were cold. "Oh no, Sister, I live in this building. Is it cold outside?" I said. She rolled her eyes at me and another Sister laughed. I walked back up to my room for my post-Mass nap without thinking twice of the conversation. As of then, the only side effect of flip-flopped feet for Lent was cold feet between the buildings. 

      A few days later, I started to experience what any devoted flip flop wearer experiences: the stretching of the arches on his or her feet. I began to realize how high the arches on my feet were and had to wrap my foot. In addition, my feet were beginning to be harassed by the cold weather and wet snow: they were cracking. At least they were trying to adapt. Lent was starting to get a little painful by week three. Although, I started to get a kick out of Sister Elaine who would comment on my toenail polish every week. You see, she sits in the first row of chairs in Marian chapel and when I would walk by after communion, she would sneak a peek at my feet. After Mass, she would comment with the color of the week. And on one particular snowy morning, Sister Marita Carmel enjoyed being a reprimanding mother by telling me I needed to get my common sense in check and find a better Lenten practice. 

     Of course nothing quite beats the night I was leaving a Campus Ministry event with the nunnies and we noticed the flurries. I offered my arm to those I was worried about falling and Sister Cathy graciously linked mine. She happened to look at my feet and asked if I was cold. I said, "it's all relative." Of course, she asked why I was wearing flip flops...so I had to tell her. A few minutes after that, I linked all the nunnies together and told them to be careful as they walked the rest of the way to the convent. I prayed none of them would slip for the snow was particularly slippery that night. And as I thought that, my feet went out from under me and I enjoyed a nice heart attack as I grabbed the railing. 

     On Palm Sunday, I entertained the nunnies by requesting Sister Selfies from them. I have always enjoyed being a source of entertainment for the nunnies. That Sunday was no different. As I knelt on the floor next to Sister Pat, our president, and Sister Marita Carmel, the rest of the nunnies gather around me and I said, "Okay Sisters, make sure you can see yourself on the screen." Six Sisters and a Joe Conte fit themselves into the screen. Of course, Sister Pat then asked for her own selfie with me. Wow, what an honor. So, for the next few minutes, we took Becca and Sister selfies. When I took mine with Sister Marita Carmel, the sister who ever so kindly and motherly told me to pick a new Lenten practice, told me, "Next Sunday, you better have shoes on your feet, child of God." I promised to send her a picture but I decided I'll probably just send her this blog post! Hi, Sister. I have shoes on my feet today and they're orange, just as promised. 

     Lent was almost over and every day last week in Sister Cathy's office, we mentioned coffee. She asked how I was surviving. I honestly had no idea. Between the bare feet and the lack of elixir of life, I should have been severely ill or something. But the grace of God sustained me, I am sure of it. On Tuesday she told me that I should plan out a perfect place to enjoy my Resurrection coffee. I hadn't thought about it too much until this morning...Of course, I was reminded of the need to find a special place when I read her Easter card in which she mentioned that Resurrection coffee. 

     As I was standing in the kitchen, with my Easter shoes on, I thought of my place for Resurrection coffee. Mid-Mass, while sitting in the pew with the memorial plaque for my Gutherman Grandparents in it (a way to spend the Holy Day with them, too), it hit me: down by the river. Of course, when I thought that, I couldn't help but hear my SEARCH VI leaders sing and shout "DOOOOOOOOWN BY THE RIIIIVEEEEER." I laughed and then, when I got home, brewed my "Peru San Ignacio" fair trade coffee. When it was finished, I added a little sweetness and got my sister in the car to drive to the River. There, I stood feeling the breeze off the river, with my orange, sunshine Easter shoes and cup of coffee, enjoying that first taste of coffee in forty days. My sister, meanwhile, took her shoes off and had her feet down in the mud by the water. I watched her, took a few pictures, and smiled. These were simple times. 

      I stood there thinking about the journey my feet had taken, the pain they endured and the suffering in solidarity with Christ. I stumbled upon a Neruda poem called "My Feet" halfway through Lent and smiled as it reminded me of Jesus. His feet had walked upon the water, but on the way to Calvary, He walked barefoot upon the wind and the earth. His feet probably looked a bit worse after a few hours than mine did after forty days. But during those forty days, my feet cracked, they bled, they were cold and a bit frozen (I'm not sure how I avoided frostbite), and they were definitely dirty all the time. As I watched my Sister, I wanted so badly to take my shoes off and jump into the river mud and water with her. I thought about how I came to the decision to give up shoes for Lent. I thought about Thomas who probably didn't have a new pair of shoes yet and I thought of Katie D who had a single pair of shoes for years. The more I thought, the more I wanted to take my shoes off, the more I felt constrained. 

      We got into the car and I let my Sister drive to Bristol (she just recently got her permit....ah). As we drove, "This Is How Country Feels" came on the radio during which Randy Houser says something about digging feet in the river mud. I smiled because even though Croydon is suburbia, it truly has the country small town feel. I grew up not wearing shoes for most of the summer and with my bare feet in the river mud. I never feel as free as I do when I'm not wearing shoes. I felt so one with God in that moment by the river with my feet in the mud. But I felt even more free after spending Lent essentially barefoot because not only did I share in the shoelessness of Christ, but also of Thomas and of Katie D. I understood what it meant to not really have a choice in shoe wear. I understand the pain of calloused and bruised feet. I understood the pain of the homeless in the dead of Winter. I understood the blessing of being able to choose to take my shoes off and stand in the river mud. But most of all because of all this, I felt freely bathed in the grace of God. Happy Easter...take your shoes off for a while. 

Visions of the Night, The Eucharist and The Moon

"In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep

falls upon men while slumbering on their beds, 

He opens the ears of men and seals their instruction." 

- Job 33: 15

      It all started with the moon. If you hadn't noticed, I'm in love with taking pictures. I love photography. When I was out on my photographic journey the other day, I accidentally stumbled upon the moon. I didn't realize how perfectly clear the crevices in the moon appeared until I zoomed all the way in. Wow! How beautiful! Since then, I've been slightly obsessed with capturing the moon from behind my lens. The above photo is one of my favorites that I captured in quite a unique way:

      We were coming home from the baptism via way of the PA Turnpike. My dad was driving a little over seventy miles per hour. I looked up into the sky and saw it: the moon. Once again, the moon had met me half way. So I yelled into the backseat to ask my sister if she could weasel my camera out of my backpack that had already been packed for school. When I got the camera, I rolled down the window, unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned out of the car window. Ok, I admit it probably wasn't the smartest or brightest idea I ever had, but look at the results. I felt the cold penetrating every open pore in my body, my nose, my eyes, my ears, my face. And my fingers were just about frozen. Finally, I crawled back inside the car only to find my dad and little sisters laughing hysterically. Ironically enough, my dad didn't reprimand me for doing something slightly stupid like hanging out of the car window, but rather he was laughing. He told me he wished he could have taken a picture of my face in the wind. He wasn't surprised at my little adventure, in fact later when I was begging him to "chase the sunset" so I could get a picture, he fed the spirit of adventure in my soul. Essentially, my dad and I share that same spirit. Regardless, I got the moon pictures and I couldn't have been happier. 

      Hours later, when I finally got the chance to lay down in my bed and fall asleep (ask my roommate about that one...), I began to dream quite vividly. While I had been busy taking moon pictures out the car window, my friend Karly asked me if there was a rule about how many times a person can receive the Eucharist in one day. I told her that Canon Law says no more than twice a day. I told her that one sister in my life told me that if I am serving the Lord at Mass and must go to more than two Masses, Jesus would rather I connect my soul to Him via the Eucharist all of those times. And I told her that one sister told me that if we truly understood what the Eucharist was, once, during our whole life time, would be enough. In my dreams, I began to gather answers from various people about the Eucharist and this Canon Law rule. Here's the final scene of my dream:

      I see Sister Marcille in the distance and I run to her. I say, "Sister..the Eucharist?" And she answers, somehow knowing exactly what I wanted to know or maybe...what I needed to hear. She draped her arm around my shoulder, pulling me close as if telling me something only I could hear or maybe....only I would understand. She pointed to the Tabernacle, then to the moon in the distance (because apparently in my dream, we have tabernacles on campus outside....) and then pointed to my heart. As she spoke, I got smaller and smaller, digressing into a younger self. "If you, Becca dear, and I, really, truly, understood what the Eucharist was. If we really understood that Jesus was there, that we were consuming His flesh and blood, once upon our tongues would be enough. All the love and fascination you have with the clarity and details of the moon, would be one hundred times more for the love of Christ. If you and I understood the Eucharist, it would be like you finally touching the moon with your bare hands. You would never have to touch the moon again, because that moment will have had overcome your heart and soul so much. But for now, since it is humanely impossible to grasp the Eucharist, we will simply take pictures of it, like you do the moon, until the day when we can finally touch Jesus. Does that answer your question?" In my tears, I shook my head yes. When my alarm went off a few moments later, I still had tears in my eyes.

       You see, Sister Marcille and I have had this conversation before. However, there was definitely NOT that much lyrical poetry and beautiful metaphors in her answer the first time. I was in awe. When I headed down the stairs to chapel for Mass, I stopped on one of the landings to examine why on earth there was a cherry picker hanging out in the courtyard. As I watched, the same sister who had been in my dream was now walking down the stairs behind me. I greeted her with a smile and she did the same. In our pre-Mass conversation, I told her she was in my dream. Without giving her much detail she said, "Beware of the dangers of the mind at sleep." I laughed, in truth our dreams do tell us so much about ourselves. I am actually a firm believer in that. However, I also do believe that God visits us in our dreams. Some would say it was because I had been taking pictures of the moon and reading poetry by Pablo Neruda right before I fell asleep. And some would say there was a reason behind Sister being in my dream and even the part about me digressing into a younger age. But really, this time, I think it's because I needed to hear/dream something so beautiful about my beloved Eucharist, something I've truly taken for granted as of late. I needed to hear words of sheer poetry, I needed to hear beauty. So thanks God. Thanks for giving me what I need, and thanks for sending me an angel in my dream! If you ever read this, Sister, thanks! Thanks for being His instrument in real life and in dreams! So, until I can finally touch the moon, I'll just keep taking pictures of it's beauty!

P.S. I think Sister Marcille might have been a "Yay" Baby when she was younger. She gets it.