Saved On The Way Down

"On the way down, I saw You and

I won't forget the way You love me.

On the way down, I almost fell right through, 

but I held onto You."

- Ryan Cabrera, On The Way Down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Counting The Tears

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

They can be healing waters and a stream of joy.

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

- W. Paul Young, The Shack

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

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

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

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

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

Call Me, Maybe? Or Marry Me?

"I have foresight and it's real.

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

All the boys try to chase me."

- Carly Rae Jepsen, Call Me Maybe

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

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

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

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

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

Las Manos De Monja

"Hold my hand. I promise I'll do all I can. 

Things will get better if you just hold my hand.

Nothing came come between us if you just hold my hand."

- Akon & Michael Jackson, Hold My Hand

Archbishop Chaput with Students of the New Cristo Rey School in Philadelphia.
Disclaimer: Photo is from Chaput's Facebook page.

    It's always been a dream of mine to be fluent in at least one other language aside from English. When I was younger, my idol was Celine Dion and since she was French Canadian, my dream became to learn French. After studying French for four years in high school, I stopped studying it. However, I use my French more now that I'm not studying it, than I did while studying it. Just last night I was having a conversation with one of the Jamaican boys in French. While I love the French language, I realized that it's not very widely spoken here in the United States, and so, when I got to college, I decided to try Spanish. I fell in love with the language. It fell into place with my other dreams of teaching in inner city schools and poverished areas of our country. Did you know that according to the last US Census, 35 million people ages 5 and older spoke Spanish in their homes? That's a pretty huge amount. So, I tweaked my dream of learning a different language; Spanish now, instead of French. Even last year, I toyed around with picking up a minor of Spanish for the Teaching Profession. However, my credits didn't allow room for another minor. But my dream of learning Spanish is still very prominent in my heart. My day at the new Cristo Rey High School in Philadelphia solidified that dream for me.

    It was an experience quite unexpected. I knew nothing about the new opening of Cristo Rey except that it was in the process of being opened. Suddenly, I was asked, along with a few of my peers, to travel to North Philly to sing for the opening Mass. When I first heard the music, I was ecstatic. Not only were we singing a few songs in Spanish, but also Swahili. If you know me, you know me, the thing that most easily warms my heart is African music with drums and the beautiful African voices! As we sang it, I was reminded of Sunday Mass in Jamaica and I almost cried for the beauty of it. The sea of diversity in the congregation between the students, the family, the faculty and those whose passion in life is Cristo Rey was even more beautiful! I was in awe of the whole Mass and could not swipe the smile off my face. It was totally God's Divine Providence that brought me there because during the intercessions (which were spoken in a few different languages), I realized that THIS is the teaching job I had always dreamed of. So, maybe God wants me to head there post graduation. We will see where God points me.

      However, this leads me back to "las manos de monja." The night before Cristo Rey, I got an email from one of the sisters telling me I had the hands of a nun (all because I made her guacamole). I laughed and laughed a much needed laugh. I have the hands of a nun?! I thought. So, in my prayer at Cristo Rey, I reflected on what that really means. I know I want to be what I call "Flufftastic" when I become a sister (which really means being huggable and giving the best hugs). But hands? When I look at my hands now, I see slightly callused hands, bitten down fingernails and cuticles from bad nervous habits, and a ring from my grandma. My hands are tiny hands, just barely bigger than my little sister's hands. And what have my hands done? These hands have built houses, fed children, changed diapers, written letters, made guacamole, blew kisses, colored, done homework, and most importantly, have held other hands. I am a hand holder and a hugger; human touch is important to me. A child knows he or she is loved when a parent gives a hug. A teenager knows he or she is loved when someone holds his or her hand. A husband or wife knows they are loved by the touch of his or her spouse. An elderly knows the love through a hand to hold as well. So many hands my hands have held. But what makes my hands different from anyone else's?

      My hands will teach, not only by the words I will type on the computer, or write on the blackboard (they better still have those when I'm a teacher...not kidding), or the encouragements I write or papers, but by example, too. I know my hands are willing to touch the hands of the stickiest child in the orphanage, or the rough hands of the student touched by violence, or the aged hands of the my elderly sisters, or the hands of those who have suffered greatly. My hands will build not only houses, but homes and love. But most importantly, I want my hands to never grow old, so that I can continue holding the hands of all peoples just like the hands of those who built Cristo Rey. 

      I was so blessed to be touched by those at Cristo Rey and I am so blessed to know that I, too, have that potential. I hope I never lose "mis manos de monja!"

Fire Drill Perks

"It was a sting operation by the nuns; 

they wanted the whole school to go to daily Mass."

- Mike Gallagher

     A daily morning for me: wake up at 6:15 am, take a shower, get dressed in the outfit I picked out the night before, brush my teeth, brush my hair, grab my Office book and head out the door. Today my morning consisted of waking up, taking a shower, getting dressed, brushing my teeth and running out the door as the fire alarm went off throughout the whole entire building. 

    People were strolling casually out of their rooms in their pajamas, house coats and bedroom slippers. Meanwhile, I was dressed and ready to go and yelling at my roommate to get out of bed. There are six fire exit doors in the building and the entirety of my building decided to go out ONE. Needless to say, while the building was "burning down," we were stuck at a standstill on the second floor staircase landing. Finally, my roommate and I didn't care about how many people just got up. Someone started screaming about the second fire escape door at the bottom of the staircase (which, when opened, signals another alarm which scared the daylights out of the freshmen). Finally, we all made it outside. One of the freshmen, who I just befriended during orientation, came up to me and asked how quickly I got dressed. One of my close friends corrected her by saying, "The right question to ask her is how long she's been up..." We all laughed. Of course, we had to jump on the Twitter hashtag bandwagon and say, "Daily Mass Goer Perks." Then I started to think of all the perks of our early morning fire drill. 

    If you know me, you know that I'm always trying to find the positive points of an event. So, as we were all standing outside (in the rain, mind you), I started listing the perks of this fire drill. One: No one can be late for class today since the alarm went off at 6:45. Two: We all now know that are SIX fire escape doors. Three: We are all comfortable with each other's pajama habits. Four: We all got our "showers" outside in the rain. Five: I got to Mass on time. 

    Ok, so now that we have those listed, I must explain that every time we have a fire drill here, we try to figure out who made a stupid move to set off the alarm. Some of the past stupid moves were not putting water in pasta in the microwave, leaving the hot straightening iron on and having a space heater under the sink. So as all the freshmen were regretting their decision to come to a school that has fire drills at the crack of dawn, the upper classmen like myself were trying to figure out what set the alarm off. Some of the excuses I heard were: oatmeal in the new microfridges, a curling iron, the new alarm clock system for the freshmen, it was Jesus trying to wake me up (thanks to my good friend, Matt) and the best, by far, was stated by my best friend, Mike, "It's a sting operation put on by all the nuns to get the whole school to go to Mass with Becca." Yep, THAT  IS EXACTLY why we had a fire drill this morning. 

     The true life matter is, no one knows what set the alarm off this morning, but it was definitely NOT a drill. There were a few nuns in their pajamas this morning, too, along with the entirety of my building. The true life matter is that we need to constantly find the perks of upsetting situations because if we don't, we'll spend our life miserable. We have to learn how to laugh at the surprises God throws at us. And we have to accept everyone, regardless of their nightgowns, boxer shorts or bathrobes. Yep, there are perks to fire drills and so many other things in life. 

A Spiritual Snuggle

"Didn't you just ever need a hug, or a cuddle, or a snuggle 

and then you went to your favorite mentor and had coffee? 

It fixed everything right? They snuggled you without actually snuggling you."

      Everyone needs a Spiritual Snuggle. There are plenty of times when we are feeling down, frustrated, scared, or upset and we feel empty. We feel as if we are missing something. Our hearts are down and our souls need some uplifting. Some of us turn to our beds to "sleep off" the bad feelings, some go to the kitchen, some go to the shower, some go for a run, and some go to prayer. Me? I go to my Spiritual Snuggler. 

      We've had a busy, rough week here at school for student leaders. We've had to sit through tons of trainings for various leadership positions, be in fifty different places at once and wear five different shirts at the same time. Communicative sometimes got choppy (my biggest pet peeve) and attitudes were at their breaking limitations. If I didn't know myself, I'd have broken down...but I do know myself. I know that when things get tough, I need to remove myself for a mere few minutes and breathe. Every single day this week, when things would get rough, I'd plant myself in my Spiritual Snuggler's office for those moments of breathers. 

      She is always there for me...literally, her office is an OPEN DOOR. There were some days this week when I walked in and she asked if it was a "Closed or Open Door" conversation. She knows me. She would sometimes sit with me at her table or she would let me just be there with her while venting, or she would walk with me back to where I had to be. Whenever someone asks me where my favorite place on campus is, I have to say her office. It's perfect for her and her spiritual snuggles.

     So what is a spiritual snuggle? It's a moment where someone listens to you for a few seconds or maybe a few minutes or even hours. It's when someone doesn't mind sacrificing a few moments when she passes you by. It's when someone gives you an unexpected hug or an encouraging pat on the shoulder. It's when someone sends you a random smile somehow. It's when someone goes out of their way to give you some much needed love. It's when someone takes your spirit and snuggles it either physically, emotionally or spiritually, real close and lets you know it will be ok! 

     And so, during my hectic week, I was so blessed to have my Spiritual Snuggler so close by and so willing to give me all the spiritual snuggles I needed. 

A Sea of God

"A dreamer is a vessel; I will sail my vessel

til the river runs dry. 

I'll never reach my destination if I never try.

So, I will sail my vessel."

- Garth Brooks

     As some of you know, I'm a student leader at my college and so, I got the chance to move in a week early and attend meetings and workshops all week (which will essentially be my future as an educator...). Today, I and my fellow peers were given the opportunity to attend the first ever Student Leadership Institute at my University. The day included multiple sessions and seminars we could attend to learn more about aspects of leadership. One in particular was called "At Sea With God." However, one of my friends misread the title and called it "A Sea of God." For some reason, I found that a little more fitting.

     You see, one of the question presented was, "If I were a boat, what type of boat would I be?" So many different types of boats were presented like fishing boats, sail boats, kayaks, canoes, passenger liners, cargo ships, ice breakers and so many more. However, I didn't need those options to choose from. I already knew what type of boat I would be. There was a picture on the screen, similar to the one above. That's my boat. 

      I absolutely love water. As Brad Paisley says, "I have a love affair with water." True life. But I absolutely love being in/on boats. While I'm terrified of sinking in a huge passenger liner in the middle of the ocean, I would have no qualms about sailing in a little boat across the ocean. Ever since I was little, I've wanted to build a boat like this with my dad and then do something crazy like sail across the ocean with him. True story. I would absolutely love it.

       So why a meager, little, wooden sailboat? Well for one, Jesus was a carpenter. However, there's barely any room from anyone in my boat. Just me. And my journey through life has been and will be the road less traveled, or the seas less sailed. So, I am solo in my journey. However, many people come and go in my life so, of course, there is room for one person if they choose. But I am the only person that can live this life God has planned for me. So, it's a small boat. This means there's not much room for belongings. I've always had this desire to get rid of everything but a few necessities. So in my boat, I'd have only a few things. I'd have my trusty adventure backpack (I've seriously become so attached to that old thing...), my journal, a throw away camera (or a few), a blanket, of course, maybe a pair of flip flops, my bathing suit definitely, my bible, some changes of clothes, and my teddy bear. Oh, and some food. But that's it. I don't need much, so why bring much. My little boat gives enough room to sleep in, and enough room to sail in, and to row in. I would love it. Oh and the name of my boat would be Humility. 

      This boat not only sighs adventure, but it look worn, after much use. It looks like it's withstood so much challenge and chaos. It shows the hard work of long laboring and sailing. I imagine that big, tough, calloused hands have made my boat; the hands of my God. You see, God has given me the sea to sail, but it is up to me to get my boat moving. So, I must sail, catch God's wind, or row. Sometimes the waves will get rough and bumpy, sometimes there might be a storm at sea, and sometimes the waters will be calm. My little boat will be able to withstand it all; it's had tons of practice! And to be honest, I don't know if I'd have an anchor in my boat except only to be anchored in Christ, because I know with God, He will take me so many places. I won't be staying anywhere for real long!

        Yes, that is my boat. A tiny, humble sailboat. Made from wood by hand. Roughed up by years of sailing, but able to withstand so many more years!! But most importantly it will be at sea with God in the sea of God. I will constantly be surrounded by God as I will be surrounded by water. It will just like being wrapped in a hug with Jesus!!! In my boat!