TBD - A Reflection on Who I Am

"What a life I would've missed, 

if you'd not took a chance.

I wasn't expecting that."

- Jamie Lawson "Wasn't Expecting That"

      I've been struggling to write this post for almost a month and a half. Today is Easter and last night, at the Easter Vigil, I decided I was finally going to write it. So far this year, I've been to a funeral a month. If I wasn't going to be on a service trip with my students this week, I'd be going to another one. At every funeral there is a remembrance for the deceased, whether it comes in the form of poem, eulogy or song. It is during this time that family members and friends, say all the great things about the deceased. What they were like, who they were, what they liked to do, etc. Having been to so many funerals recently, I've been lead on a introspective journey on who I am. Me. Gutherman.
      It's a question I ask every single retreat group: who are you? It's a question I seemingly expect 17 and 18 year olds to answer easily. But heck, as much as I think I know who I am, I do not know. Yet, every time I have my students reflect on the question, I want to know who they think they are. And I go through these periods when I am so confident who I am then others when I have no idea. The past few months, I've been searching and struggling with trying to find my true self again. I feel like I've been lost and it's partly because I lost a huge part of my heart in January. But last night, at the Easter Vigil, I started to feel a glimpse of who I am again. It's like I'm raising again from my own grave of sadness, grief and mourning. Even if I've put on a happy face for the past few months, it's been a struggle. But last night...last night, I felt the earth shake.
       From before I was born, the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament have influenced my life. That is not an exaggeration. My nun obsession started young. At only a few weeks old, I was held dearly by those sisters. They prayed for me, they loved me and they were my earliest faith influences aside from my family. But at this rate, they basically are my family. I have vivid memories of going to the SBS Convent for Christmas Eve Mass, having milk and cookies after. I remember so many moments of visiting with the sisters for many occasions. From the beginning of my faith life, they were some of the biggest influences. I knew this, of course, but I didn't really understand their influence until last night.
      For the past two years, on Easter Vigil, I have had the privilege and honor of singing at the convent for Mass. Last year I was so nervous, but this year I was confident. More confident than I've felt in a long time. And man did it feel amazing to sing again. Not just singing along to the radio or with the choir in church, actually utilizing my vocal training, my breathing, and letting my voice rise to the Heavens in praise of my Jesus. I felt beautiful being able to use my gift for Jesus again. And then we sang some more, using bells and dancing and clapping. We sang the gloria so loud. We sang Alleluia. We sang Hosanna. We danced, we joined hands, and cried out our praise. We, young and old, sisters, lay people, children, parents, priests. I watched the Sisters in the Balcony dance and clap along. With a big smile, I let myself freely worship. And that's when I realized that part of who I am is SBS, African American and Native American spirituality.
      I've always felt a deep connection with the spirituality presented to me by the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. Of course, I've always felt a deep connection with the Blessed Sacrament, given to me by the Sisters' example. Even the sight of Him in the Blessed Sacrament at Mass brings me to tears. That love of the Eucharist was nourished in me, in High School, by the example of the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth. You see, it wasn't out of the ordinary for me to stop in the beautiful Chapel at Nazareth during lunch, study or before/after school and see a Sister there as well. Many times it was Sister David, my mentor, sister and now friend. At other times, I would see the sisters in prayers before supper (yes, I stayed at school that late...poor SMJ). Then I began spending more time with the Sisters, who then were my mentors, who are now some of my closest friends. Then and now we spend time together walking, talking, and praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament. There's no thing like friends sending you a text that says, "I think we need to spend more time with Jesus...when are you free?" or a simple invitation to celebrate Mass together (even if it's a two hour long mass in a foreign language. Whether or not they're on the vocation team, they're constantly checking in on my relationship with Jesus. Of course my relationship with so many of the Sisters, makes it completely normal for them, while passing through my town on Easter Sunday, to follow me in the nun car while I'm out walking my dogs. And to, of course, roll down the windows and yell my name! It's because of them that I have a love for Church tradition and family. They are my family. And part of who I am is CSFN, family-loving, Polish wannabe.
       It's funny how my life, when I look back, seems to fall into place. It's because of a CSFN that I ended up at Immaculate with the IHMs. She encouraged me to branch, live my life and not be afraid to embrace a place that I felt was calling me home. She was the first one I told where I was going to college and was always supportive. Because of her I met the IHMs...and it was about time. Yet another group of faith-filled women who shaped me even more into the young woman that I am and made me a true educator. They showed me a truly sassy side to religious life, gave an even more reality to religious women and living in community. They became mentors during some of the hardest years of my life, became women I could cry with, and teachers who pushed me to be the best student (and teacher) I could be. They employed me, trusted me and gave me so many opportunities. They tested me many times: as I told one student, "You'll be a better person because she's reprimanding you right now." But most importantly, they were the faith family for four years of my life. They were the ones who opened their arms when I joined them for Mass every single day, prayed with them, sang with them, and developed a deeper relationship with Jesus because of them. Of course, I can't forget how they instilled a love in my heart for the immigrant, for the refugee and for Peru. I always wanted to be a teacher, but they showed me how - by example and by opportunity. Who I am is part IHM, educator, vocalist, and lover of creative hope.
       Just like how one CSFN led me to Immaculate, one IHM taught me everything I needed to know for my current job. Without every opportunity she gave me on my resume, there's no way I could have made it this far as a Campus Minister. Without her, I wouldn't know how to run a retreat, teacher girls to pray, when to love tough and when to give tough love, or how to stay organized in an office full of chaos. Without her, I never would have met the SSJs who share my love for Social Justice. Well, really it's a burning passion. I never knew that when I insisted on taking French for four years in High School that I would learn and teach with a community with French roots. They, too, have pushed me to be a better me, become friends and sisters, and given me the opportunity of a life time -to do what I have always really desired - bring young women to Jesus. It's because of them that I get to spend a week with my students serving the dear neighbor - doing what I spent most of my college time doing. And so truly, part of me is SSJ, servant to the dear neighbor, preacher of social justice.
        I could easily stop there but truly I'm a Heinz 57 of religious communities. I could say part of who I am is Franciscan: barefoot, one with the earth, lover of nature - creating life with Mother Earth. I could say part of me is Carmelite, the contemplative piece of me who would rather sit in silence with Jessica Powers, St. Teresa of Avila or St. Therese. And I could say part of me is even Holy Spirit Adoration Sisters (Pink Sisters) because of my love for adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, for I could spend hours in adoration of my Jesus.
       So who am I? It's a question I've been grappling with for a few months. I'm an Irish girl, with a German last name and Italian heritage. I love food, eating it, making it, giving it. I love making things with my hands, creating art and giving life to ideas and concepts. I love being in the garden, planting, having dirt in my hands and speaking to the plants. I love walking or sitting by the river, breathing in the fresh (?) air of the Delaware. I love driving in the car for long hours in silence or with music on. I love sitting by the fire, singing, roasting marshmallows or praying, yes, praying. I love laughing so hard my stomach hurts. I love hugs - long, cuddly, embraces that make me feel safe and loved. I love singing so loud and strong that by the end of my jam session or Mass, I've lost my voice. I love playing games, dancing for no reason or every reason at all and I love spending time in silence with people. I love reading - cheesy romance novels or the lives of the saints (which sometimes are cheesy romance novels). I love writing, going to diners, spending hours talking with people who were first mentors, then friends, and always sisters. I love telling stories, listening to stories and being part of stories. I love loving deep and strong and hard. I'm from Croydon so I'm tough, but I also know that the greatest thing we have in this world is each other. And most of all, I love being with my family, whether they share my last name, my bloodline, or my faith. Who I am is all of this and yet more to be discovered. Who I am is all I am and all I am not. But I am she who dances and claps in church, who loves too fiercely and lives for each moment and each memory. All this from one song and dance with my Sisters: Hosanna! Blessed be the rock, blessed be the rock of my Salvation!

Attitude of Gratitude

"Nothing comes easily, 

where do I begin?

Nothing can bring me peace, 

I've lost everything. 

I just want to feel your embrace. 

Turn my grief to grace."

"Grace" - Kate Havnevik

A few weekends ago, I had yet another retreat under my belt. Below is the reflection I shared with my students on being grateful constantly and for all the right reasons. Since I haven't blogged in a while, I thought I'd share this with you. 

 

“Dear Mommom, thank you for helping me with my Girl Scout Badge. Here are some cursive letters (i t u e). Love, Rebecca Gutherman.”

I think that hilarious, little note was written probably when I was in 1st or 2nd grade; just about the time I was learning cursive. My Mommom had the most beautiful cursive handwriting and I wanted to have handwriting just like hers. I was obviously showing off.

“Dear Mommom and Poppop, Thank you so very much for the wonderful Communion Gifts. I am so lucky to have you as my grandparents. You will always be special to me. Love, your granddaughter, Rebecca.”

This note has better handwriting, a little crooked, but better. Naturally it was written in gold gel pen because that was the 90’s. It would have been incredibly incomplete without it.

My favorite thank you note, by far, was not actually written by me. It was written by my mom, because, judging by the picasso art, I could not yet write letters. It simply says, “Thank you mommom and poppop. You make me smile. Love, Becca.”

Growing up, my parents encouraged me, no, forced me, to write a thank you note for everything under the sun. Whether it was for plenteous birthday gifts or Christmas presents, or for the gratitude I was oh so overcome with when someone babysat us, helped us out, or took us on a trip. I can guarantee that most of the thank you notes I ever wrote went to my grandparents. Even more so to my Mommom.

My Mommom loved to write, so often we would end up in the endless cycle of notecards and letters. She would send a Valentine card with 2 dollars in it, I’d write a thank you note, signed by either me or both of my sisters. Of course, she’d later respond and hence, the endless cycle. While at the time it always seemed so nettlesome to write thank you note after thank you note, I learned to really appreciate writing and later, receiving thank you notes. It’s always such a joy to find one on my desk, in my mailbox at school or better yet, one in the real mailbox at home with a stamp attached. Yes, actual snail mail, people. I love the joy that comes with writing them as well.

My Mommom used to tell me I got my gift of writing from her. She would also tell me, I got my gift of people skills from her, my perfect penmanship from her and my love for lasagna, wine, traveling, taking pictures and documenting memories all from her. I’m my Grandmother’s granddaughter for sure. I should also mention that I get my bad habit of keeping EVERYTHING from her as well. I keep every note, letter, card ever given to me. I have drawers filled with them. I keep concert tickets, movie ticket stubs, sticky notes on the fridge, everything. That’s how I got a hold of the thank you notes.

When I graduated high school, my Mommom gave me two gifts: a ring that I’ve worn since that day that is inscribed with Mark 10:27 - with God all things are possible; and two very large scrapbooks. The scrapbooks weigh at least ten pounds each and have documented in them every picture I drew, every TY note I wrote, every picture I took, every trip I took, every concert I performed in or went to, everything. Two scrapbooks filled with momentos from my 18 years of life.

When I got them, I laughed, I cried and I ran my hand over every page that had her handiwork on it. She spent months working on this project and she put herself into every page wholeheartedly. I kept them in my bedroom and would open them up every time I did a “deep clean” of my bedroom - at least every few months. Each time I would sit on the floor and go carefully through each one, catching something new I never saw before. Each time, I felt so incredibly blessed not only that my grandmother put all my favorite memories in one place, but also that I had so many memories - happy memories of people, places and events. Truly, that’s what I treasure the most and each time I opened those books, I would thank my God for blessing me so much.

Just recently, I found myself on the bedroom floor browsing through these scrapbooks. This time, it wasn’t a result of a deep clean, although I should probably do that soon. Rather, it’s because I wanted to run my hands over the pages where my Mommom’s fingers delicately placed each picture perfectly. I wanted to touch the pages on which she had left so many traces of love. I wanted to touch her. The words of the song you just heard said it perfectly - it’s what I’ve been feeling so deeply since January 10, 2016 when my Mommom suddenly passed away.

None of us were expecting it - my sister and my dad had seen her the night before, laughed with her, told jokes, ate cookies, drank tea and she was only suffering from what seemed like a small bout of a cold. But the next morning, after I had routinely gone to Mass, gone to the gym and was headed to spend the day with my boyfriend, I got a very confused phone call from my younger sister. Without giving me any details, she told me to re-route and head the Abington Hospital right away - Mommom was in bad shape. Little did I know, even upon arriving at the hospital, that my Mommom had already gone home to God. I couldn’t believe it then and most days, I still can’t believe it. Yes, most days, I’m still waiting for her to come home from her 2 month vacation in Florida she took every Winter.

As I browsed through pictures to make memory boards and listened to numerous songs to help numb the pain, there was only one thing I really wanted. I wanted to hug her, I wanted to walk into her house, wake her up from “resting her eyes on the easy chair” and hear her voice again. As much as I always felt suffocated when she hugged me, I wanted her to grab my face, kiss me a million times and smother me with her arms. I would do anything to be suffocated by her love again. I just want to feel her embrace.

As hard as it’s been mourning my Mommom, my grief has been turned to grace. There have been ups and downs: Laughing at memories or spending hours sobbing because I lost my best friend; hiding my tears or sharing them with friends; feeling the sun shine warm upon my face and feeling empty. But mostly I’ve been reminiscing on how lucky I am to have had my Mommom for almost 24 years. As Justin Beiber would say, “I’m more than grateful for the time we spent, my spirit’s at ease.” I have so much for which to be thankful - the memories, the trips, the selfies, the adventures, the late-night prayers, the phone calls, the dinner dates, the laughter, the jokes, the joys. I’m so thankful that God gave me such a beautiful woman to nourish me, to hold me, to be my advocate when no one else would, to be the lone supporter in the crowd at a concert, to be my biggest cheerleader. I’m so thankful she was always there for me. And if I had the chance to write her one last thank you note, I would say:

“Dear Mommom,

Thank you for the time we spent together. Thank you for all the hugs and kisses. Thank you for all your love. Thank you for every note card. Thank you for passing down your love of music, writing and loving all people. Thank you for always having orange juice in the fridge for when I visit and knowing it’s my favorite. Thank you for always hiding the good candy and saving it for me. Thank you for your gift of humor and still bringing smiles to my face. Thank you for every FB message that may or may not have made sense. Thank you for giving me so many memories to keep you alive with me here and now. Thank you for every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every year I got to spend with you - the most beautiful woman in the world. I am so lucky to have you as my Mommom and you will always be special to me.

Love,

Becca

P.S. I love you. Shine on.”

Kisses from Heaven

"That was the thing. You never get used to it; 

someone being gone. Just when you think it's reconciled, 

accepted, someone points it out to you, and it just hits you

all over again, that shock."

 - Sarah Dessen, "The Truth About Forever"

     Driving in the car alone with my music is a very dangerous thing. Music has always been there when words or people can't be. Somehow, I just feel like something somewhere gets me when I listen to certain songs. The words understand me, the melody hurts with me, music is what I am but what I cannot express. And so, driving in the car alone with my music is a very dangerous thing. It can make me suddenly remember a moment from years ago that made me feel something really deep, or it can bring back all the questions I have in my mind. It can make me laugh or like today, can make me cry for the umteenth time when I was trying really hard not to. And here's why:

     I was listening to my music on shuffle, as usual, when suddenly "Alive" by Jamie Walker came on. I don't expect you to know him or ever have heard the song, but it's attached below. Suddenly, I was crying. Crying really ugly tears for the millionth time this week (and yes, it's only Tuesday). Everything came back; everything and anything. 

      I hate Winter. I hate being cold, I hate the death that Winter brings, I hate snow and ice even (although the snow the first time is pretty). I like ice skating, but I hate Winter. I will be even more honest and say that Christmas and New Years are some of my least favorite holidays. And while we're talking about all the things I hate, I most particularly hate the month of January. For many, it's a month for new starts, new beginnings, but I hate it so much. Everything around me is cold, damp, dormant. I hate having to leave the house bundled up. I hate the wind chill factors. I hate the lack of sunshine. I hate it. But what I hate the most is that for the past three Januaries, I've lost someone close to me. So, every January, I catch the blues. I catch them really deep. And this year, I can't wait until February. 

       My Mommom passed away on Sunday, January 10, 2016. Today feels like the one millionth hour of January 10th and I still can't wake up from this terrible dream. This nightmare, really, that she's gone. I want to wake up but I can't. But then again, I also feel like I'm in some sort of limbo where I keep feeling like she's only gone to Florida for a few months like she planned. But I know I'll wake up from that dream someday, and realize she's gone. She's gone from here forever. 

       I can still hear her voice saying, "Oh hiya," when I walk into the back room. I can still feel her arms snuggle me into her as she tells me she missed me while I think it's only been a few days. There's so much about her that feels so fresh and yet, it's gone. I can't let go of a few things yet, like how the whole day panned out, and I'm not sure I ever be willing to let that go. But I also don't want to let her voice or touch go either. Every time I look at her picture, I start to lose it.

I had to stop writing this blog post because I couldn't get through it. Here I am, three days later trying again.

       I have an amazingly supportive colleague community at the school where I teach. We had an in service day Wednesday and words, any words really, were hard. People let me slid. Thursday the kids came back. I had to be ready for two new classes of students and I was far from ready. But they had energy - first day back energy. My kids were laughing and telling me great adventures of their term break. For about 160 minutes yesterday, I didn't cry. I didn't actually have time to think about anything other than my kids. They are amazing.
       But that morning I had to really get myself ready for the day more emotionally than anything else. I couldn't get out of my funk. One friend and colleague just wrapped her arms around me. Another took my face in her hands and very grandmotherly said, "it's never going to go away, or maybe even easier, but you will be able to live on." Young people usually say, "don't worry, it will get better." But I feel like it never will. And then I listen to the older and wiser who tell me it's okay to feel like it never will get better, it's okay to get angry, it's okay to be a mess. And believe it or not, I haven't tried to hide my pain for once in my life. I'm okay with feeling completely incapacitated by my sadness for a little, as long as it doesn't last forever. I'm okay with it, because I lost my star.

      Mommom was star and a queen. Anyone could look at her pictures and see one of the most beautiful women ever. Her eyes were bright baby blue, she had fair skin and a great smile.  She laughed, she knew how to have a good time, she loved to party, she loved her family and she loved to travel. She's seen so many beautiful places and has met so many beautiful people. She loved so much. Oh she also loved to take pictures and have her picture taken. I inherited that. She loved to write. I got that, too. She was amazing.
      As the oldest (and favorite :P) grandchild, I got to spend 4.5 years of my life with her all to myself. I was spoiled by her. Well, we all were. But I was snuggled and cuddled up until the last time I saw her. I love the story of how she dressed me in every single outfit I got as a gift as a baby and made me model. Don't believe me? There's pictures. I have many fond memories of vacations with her, trips to the movies, even day to day memories of her from visiting so much at her house. From the time she fell through the chair to the 3:30 panic attack she had because guests would be coming at any moment the day of the family reunion. Inside jokes with her, shared interests and lots of smiles and laughs are things I cherished then and cherish even more now that she's gone.
     Mommom always supported me. She came to every concert and show. When I stopped performing, she came with me to support my students at their concerts and shows. Mommom was my number one cheerleader. She made me feel like a million bucks every chance she got. She video taped or made photo books of literally every event of my life. She loved supporting me and my sisters and cousins every chance she could, any way she could.
     
      The night before Mommom passed away, my sister got to visit her and her friends. I will never be more jealous of any moment. I had an eye doctors appointment I honestly thought of just ditching so I could go to Mommom's, too. But my new year's goal was to take better care of myself and stop avoiding adult things. The next morning I got the call that she was in bad shape. Little did I know that I wasn't going to get to talk to her one last time; she was already gone before we got to the hospital. We got to say goodbye, but it wasn't anything like the regular goodbyes Mommom gave. It was nothing like the smuggling and hugging so tight you couldn't breathe and then having to wipe your cheek off from a thousand kisses. It was cold, it was blue much like the month of January.
      The week of planning for her memorial service felt like planning a party. And honestly, that's probably what she would have wanted anyway. Each day I had ups and downs. I'm a goofball sometimes and I use laughter to lighten to mood. So I brought up every funny, hilarious thing she did. Then, of course, there were the moments, by myself, that I would just break down and sob. We went through thousands of pictures and I was made even more grateful that I insisted on taking so many pictures with my grandmother. I could have made a memory board of just selfies with her. The week was also filled with debating whether or not Mary and I would sing at the memorial service. Finally, Thursday night, we went out to the garage and sang for what felt like hours until we came up with something.
      By Friday, I had felt like a million years had gone by. We went to the chapel in the cemetery where her memorial service was going to be held. We set up her pictures, her favorite things, and practiced once again our song. I was supposed to read at the service. I didn't pre-read. I couldn't. So when the memorial service started and I got up to read, I couldn't hold back the tears. In fact, I actually closed my eyes and read half of the reading from memory. I have been to too many funerals. At the end of the service, Mary and I got up to sing. Amazing Grace was what she wanted. We gave her the best we could do.
     It's now a week since we've put my Mommom to rest. It's a week later and I still feel like she'll be back any day now. But then reality hits me again. She's not coming back. I won't hear her voice or see her face except in pictures. And each night I just think about how much I miss her. I wish she would text me or like something on Facebook or call or email me at work and ask me to come for dinner. But she won't. I won't get to hear her snoring from the big easy chair in the living room when I walk through the door and I won't get to visit her in Florida like we had talked about. Of course, she won't get to see my cousins graduate, she won't see Lizzie at her prom, and she won't insist we eat at the Eagle Diner when Mary graduates college. She won't be at any weddings or vow ceremonies. She won't see any great-grandchildren. I hate thinking about that, but I do. But the thing I think about the most is - I wonder if she knew how much I really loved her. I know she knew I loved her, but I hope she knew how much.

     I hate Winter. I hate being cold. I hate January. And while all these kiddos at school are super excited about this blizzard we are getting this weekend, I'm kind of dreading the fact that I need to go get boots for both me and my puppy, milk, eggs and bread today after school with all the crazies. I dreading the cold wind that will make me super dry cheeks hurt even more. I am dreading the sledding adventure that will be me trying to get my car to church on Sunday. I am dreading it all because I really hate Winter. But you know what? I read yesterday that "snowflakes are kisses from Heaven." Well if this storm is what they say it's going to be, that it must be true. Mommom smothered us with kisses every time we arrived and we left the house. I guess this is her smothering us from above. And I guess the jokes on me now, isn't it? Miss you, Mommom. Miss you so much.

One Is The Loneliest Number

"The most terribly poverty is loneliness

and the feeling of being unloved."

- Mother Teresa

      Last night, I was blessed to a. have time in my schedule to get together for dinner with two very close friends, b. be able to afford such luxuries such as eating out and c. having two very close friends with whom I could enjoy such luxuries. Nothing is quite better than being together, laughing together, eating together and sharing stories together for over two hours with people one loves so dearly. As we were talking, my blog came into conversation. I haven't written since right before Thanksgiving. I could blame it on busy-ness, I could blame it on laziness, I could blame it on lack of motivation. I started posts but didn't finish them and eventually deleted them. I thought about what to write, but nothing ever came into fruition. But this particular blog post has been on my mind for a while, I just haven't had any words to express how I feel. However, after last night's discussion, I feel like I should pick up where I left off.
      Loneliness. No one likes to feel lonely. People like to be alone but no one likes to feel lonely. I'm one of those people. I like my "me time." I like taking time away for myself. I like being alone. Well alone with my dog. Being alone gives me time to think, to pray and to recollect myself after a big event or party (I'm an introvert in that sense). In fact some of the best moments for me are when I finally get to curl up under all my blankets and not do anything. I just can think there. Being alone is great...once in a while.
      As much as I like being alone from time to time, sometimes there is too much alone time. Those moments sneak in and suddenly, I'm left feeling so lonely. At school it's easy to fall into this feeling of loneliness. I don't share office space with anyone so unless someone comes in or I go out, I don't necessarily see people. There could easily be days when I don't see more than five people a day, especially when I have my class of two. Of course, that's not always a bad thing, especially on days I'm feeling more anxious or stressed than usual. But sometimes, that loneliness creeps in. Especially after a week of after school activities with only my students and not having time to do much else when I get home. Don't get me wrong, I love my students, but they're not my friends. I'm a teacher for over 13 hours a day sometimes, and that's exhausting.
      In the past year and a half of real world experiences, I've noticed that some friends have gone while others have stayed, and not necessarily the ones I would have expected. There are friends who I was really close with in college that I don't talk to anymore and haven't seen in months except for on social media. Then there are friends who I had a few classes with and now I see all the time. Of course, the moving away from campus plays a part; suddenly I'm not right next door or five minutes away. I guess I always thought that if we were true friends, we would travel distances for one another. And that's proven true in some cases. But I've lost a good number of friends in the past year and half due to distances.
      Another factor is the fact that friends either have full time jobs like me but our schedules are too rigorous to have energy left at the end of the night to socialize OR my friends don't have full time positions and are still trying to keep a high-key social life whereas I can barely keep my eyes awake past 8 pm on a Friday or Saturday night. I can't keep up. So I guess, if order for me to socialize with a person, he or she must be willing to either put up with me driving to their house only to literally Netflix and chill (which means nap) or drive to me and be willing to Netflix and chill. On a school night, that is. Fridays and Saturdays, I'm good up until about 8:00. Wherever I am at that moment, I will start falling asleep. I can't help it, I have a rigorous full time job that lasts longer that 9-5, M-F. I'm tired.
      Now, of course, that doesn't mean I want to change my job. Absolutely not, I love it. And given the choice between socializing and doing my job, I'd choose my job. I love my students, I love my co-workers, I love my ministry. But sometimes, just sometimes, the concept of not having a social life other than with my dog, is disheartening and lonely. It's when I'm snuggled up in my blankets at the end of a long day that I get to thinking: well, I left the house when it was dark today and I didn't get home until it was dark again. I haven't seen my family since dad is already in bed and Lizzie and Mom are busy. Gee when was the last time I talked to someone other than Joe on the phone? And even that it's usually a conversation of yawns and tired conversation that I fall asleep in the middle of. When was the last time I saw so and so? Yeah...it's then that loneliness settles.
     Studies say that winter causes more people to be depressed or feel lonely. I get that. When it's dark, we're more hesitant to go out. When it's dark, we want to go to bed and are tired. When it's dark we tend to not see people for ages. The holidays can make people feel lonely, too. Feeling lonely in a crowded room is the worst. Isn't there anyone at any family party other than my sister who understands that I hate conversing with so many people around; that it makes me anxious? I would rather find a quiet place in the house and have a quiet conversation. But at large parties, finding a quiet room is rare OR once you find that quiet room, you're basically invisible. Seems that way in my experiences anyway. Of course, this leads to insane inside jokes with my sister because we can keep ourselves occupied for hours. So, sometimes it's hard to complain.
     There are many times and places I've experienced loneliness this past month and maybe that's why it's been hard to write. Loneliness creeps in and suddenly you doubt everything - will anyone actually care what I write? Is it worth it? What should I even write? Where are my words? Why can't I use them? So at the end of this self-doubt, I snuggle up, make my puppy love me by bribing him to come upstairs with a bone and watching hours upon hours of Grey's Anatomy. Yes, everyone has had those days. December just seemed to bring a lot of them for me. I thought too much about the pain of losing friends, not dramatically but slowly and surely slipping away (that's the worst kind of losing friends...). I thought too much about how I literally never see the light of day. I thought too much about how I never see people. I thought a lot, probably too much, but that's okay.
      After last night, after spending two and half hours with two beautiful friends, I realized a few things. The friends who wouldn't drive distances for me or even make effort, maybe weren't the best friends for me. The best friends can always pick up where you left off despite long gaps in-between and also might be willing to literally watch movies in-house and order pizza. Sometimes it's okay to be alone but when loneliness starts creeping in, go find those friends. It's okay to want to snuggle in bed after a long day. It really is. And finally, get rid of the negativity that surrounds you on social media a.k.a. people with other full time jobs that somehow still manage to have an exuberant social life that you can neither afford or keep up with :)
       One is the loneliest number, but everyone feels lonely sometimes. We just have to make sure we don't let ourselves get too lonely. Yes, the seasonal changes might be helping that loneliness seem like a giant cloud overhead, but we can do things to help us out! I'm thankful for my friends who, it seems, have finally helped me get out from underneath that cloud of doom. Sometimes all it takes is a two and half hour dinner date with friends to keep you going.

 

Kiss for the Road - an Open Letter to my Extended Family

"Families are messy. Sometimes the best we can do

is to remind each other that we're related for better and for worse....

and try to keep the maiming and the killing to a minimum."

- Rick Riordan, "Sea of Monsters"

It's not all the cousins, but it's a good amount.

Dear Family, 

All great letters start with "Dear," don't they? The word means "to, hey you read this, and I'm addressing you, so listen up." But it also means "my fondest, beloved, and cherished." In this family, both apply...listen up now, my cherished related family members. 

And so I say, to my dear family members, I've been reflecting our us as a collective whole for a while now. Maybe because the last time we were all together was a sad occasion. Maybe because I love you all too much it hurts some times. Maybe before I think I love being around all of you more than anything in the world. I'm not sure what sparked this desire to write this letter to you, but I think I need to. I think it's time I told you a lot of things. 

I have so many fond memories of us together. I have a picture of me and granddad on my desk at school from the pumpkin patch. Remember how we would all pile into the giant hay-filled trailer and travel a long way to the pumpkin patch? I vaguely remember the tradition happening all the way out near Kennett Square. I vaguely remember the giant whole-in-face scarecrow thing they had there. I'm not sure how many of the cousins got to see it because it closed or we stopped going or something happened. 

I have many fond memories of the tire swing that most of us are way too big for and that one time someone broke an elbow or a pair of glasses or something...okay, it was more than one time. I have fond memories of sledding down the farm hill and thinking it was the best thing in the world. I remember going to cut down our own Christmas trees. I remember all the parties we had for Baptisms, First Communions, Graduations and Birthdays. There was always laughter, pictures, fun times, good food and hours upon hours of conversation or play. My favorite day of the year is the family party around Christmastime. I literally look forward to that all year, more than anyone can understand. 

I love when we sit around the table telling the most hilarious stories of all the brothers and sister growing up. My maternal grandmother never can understand how me and my sisters can say one word and laugh until we're blue in the face. But I'm pretty sure I get that from my dad's side of the family because no one really knows the significance of the Mayonnaise Jar or what the heck pookie means except the brothers and sister. I'm not sure I even want to know. But what I love most about those stories is the laughter that comes from them. Whether you're laughing because you were present or you're laughing because someone else's laughter is just as funny as the story itself. I know, snorting is hilarious, and yes, I'm usually the one snorting. I also love hearing the stories of our grandparents. Like how apparently granddad never let us go when we were younger or always sugared us up before returning us back to our parents. I love the pictures we have of them and somehow it leads me to believe that they loved each other a lot.  I wish I could have known Grandmom because she sounds like the strong, faith-filled woman I can only dream of being. I wish Granddad could have been here longer -  Stewart's Root Beer and Ginger Snaps just aren't the same anymore. I wish I could know if I've made them proud. 

Above all, I love each and everyone of you. The ladies of our family are some of the strongest, most empowering, and most faith-filled women I know. Whenever I need confidence, I look to my aunts - the women who have dealt with my uncles for years, who have raised my favorite people in the world, who give so much passion to their professions, their lifestyles and their families. Each of you are unique and I sometimes like to pretend I have a bit of each of your personality in me. The men of our family have shown me what to look for in my best guy friends and/or a future husband (and.....what not to look for ;)). They have shown me how to protect one's family and provide for one's family. I have seen some of the best dads I've ever met in this family. All this being said, I've seen some great power couples, too. Life goals couples. Yes, I see how husbands make wives laugh and how they frustrate each other at times. I see them get through really tough times and enjoy the blissful moments. I want that one day whether it's with Jesus or it's with a husband. 

To my cousins, the source of my tear-filled laughter. I laugh the hardest with you. I cry the most with you. I dodge the most punches when I'm with you...and I throw the most punches when I'm with you. I hear the most harassment from you about my height, but hey, shorty still loves you. But I also hear the most words of encouragement from you. Whether you're protecting our country, our family name or my dignity, you are there for me and I always feel the safest in your presence. With no one else would I willingly ruin a pair of shoes in the mud, risk a broken limb, run faster than I've ever run, race with my younger cousins on my back, or even sit around a crowded room for hours without any contact to the outside world. You are each my hero in a unique way and I wish you could know the extent of my love for you. The truth is, I don't have the words for it. All I can say is "I love you" each time and hope you know it's true. 

We don't each other often enough. It seems we only see each other now when tears are involved - births, deaths and marriages. And it's a crying shame I don't see you more often. I truthfully long to once again all be crowded in someone's smaller house for now reason other than to eat and be merry. I truthfully long to play cops and robbers, get dirty, and be childishly silly with my cousins again. I'm guilty of being so busy that sometimes I can't breathe but I think I already know what my New Year's Resolution is going to be - the see my family more often. To make it a point to visit with my aunts and uncles and cousins. Because I love you each so much. 

I started this letter with a great quotation - families are messy. We have our own messes, our own flaws, things we know about, things we hide. I have this ideal image of our family and I know each of us carries our own burdens, our own mistakes, our own flaws and so much more. I admit that I am not perfect, I could never even think about being perfect. I know that of my own person, I have my own issues. I love too much, I get my heart broken too easily, I want to save the world. But I also get too angry, I sometimes have yelling matches with God about my life and the world, and I often feel like giving up. There's more but this letter isn't about me. But really, I get it, we all have quirks, flaws and problems. We all have some reason or another to hate on someone else at times. And yeah we have family drama. But all of that doesn't make me love you any less. In fact, I think it makes me love you more because it reminds me I'm not alone. 

The truth is, the reason I wrote this open letter is so that you would know I love you. So I could put into words the reasons why I love you. You make me the best me when I'm with you. You bring out all the things I love about myself. You actually think I'm funny when I tell jokes. You actually listen to my stories whether or not they are good stories. You pray for me. You make me smile. You let me give nice, long, snuggly hugs and you let me hold your hands. You let me laugh until I'm snorting or crying or both. You remind me that I'm loved when I'm being silly and when I'm being a little melancholy, too. You remind me, too, why I'm proud to be a part of this family and to be a Catholic. 

Thank you. Thank you for being there when I need a smile, a laugh or a reminder that I need to be the best me. Thank you for everything, for raising me into the young woman I am today. Thank you for dressing me in my baptismal dress, taking my pictures, letting me be in your weddings, trusting me enough to babysit, be a godmother, letting me run around your houses (still) and so much more. Thank you and thank God we share the same last name. I love you all. 

Sincerely, 

Your niece, daughter, grand-daughter, cousin.

P.S. Here's a KISS for the Road. 

My Weekend With the Methodists - the Woman I Want to Be

"The most beautiful women we have known

are those who have known defeat, known struggle, known loss and have 

found their ways out of the depths. 

These people have an appreciation, a sensitivity and an understanding

of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness and a deep, loving concern. 

Beautiful women do not just happen."

- Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Photo Courtesy of Joy Morrison

      Many of you who follow my blog know that a huge part of my job is leading and organizing various different retreats. I've had many years of practice and I absolutely love doing this for a living. I mean really, I hit the jackpot with the best job, I think. Each retreat is beautiful in it's own way, despite being the same retreat formula and I receive so many different graces each and every time. While this particular weekend was a bit different, I still received so many graces. So this blog post is a HUGE shout out to my friends, the Methodists. 

     Over the Summer, I help teach at an annual Vacation Bible School at Wilkinson Memorial Methodist Church. The church building is closer than the Catholic church - so close, I can walk. I've been helping out at VBS for years and have made some beautiful friendships with the community there. I look forward to the amount of time I get to see these lovely people every year. This year at VBS, I had two special invitations extended to me - one, would I teach the 1st and 2nd grade class; two - would I be the main speaker at this year's upcoming Women's Retreat. Naturally, I said yes to both. 

    Of course, in August, it seemed like I had months, years, even to prepare for this retreat. The only pressing thing was to come up with a theme for retreat. So, overnight I was inspired - Beauty Amid the World's Brokenness. A week before retreat, I realized I barely had anything planned and so, you can imagine what the week at school was like for me - skitting around trying to pull things together. Finally, by Friday, I felt I was ready. I was nervous as all get out, but I felt ready. I knew once we got started, God was going to give me all the words I could possibly need, all the strength, all the courage; my God would take care of me and of the women present. 

    When we gathered for dinner the first night at the local diner, many people who I did not know kept asking around - who is doing the retreat? All fingers pointed to the "little girl on the corner" (of the table). I smiled. I'm so used to be the youngest in the group, even if only by a few months. Of course, the more I looked around, the more nervous I became. I suddenly felt inhibited by so many factors. But I knew I had to trust the Lord; I was here for a reason. 

    Very late Friday night, we gathered in our gathering room for a quick orientation. I was introduced then by the beautiful woman who initially asked me to speak at retreat. She told the story of how we met and right away told everyone that I was one of two Catholics in the room. I laughed - it's been a running joke since I started volunteering with the group for VBS. So long as we both love the same Jesus Christ, we can pray and sharing our Christianity together. They make me a stronger Catholic in all the good ways. I told the group about myself, what I do for a living, how old I was and through in a few extra jokes about myself. Before I knew it, we were headed back to our cabin for a game of Apples to Apples which had us laughing late into the night. 

      Saturday was the big day for me - three reflection sessions on various aspects of beauty and brokenness. While it was not my intention, many tears were shed at various points of the day and during the activities. Some were meant to be profound, some meant to be fun, others just for the heck of it. We were blessed to be able to share so much in many different ways. All in all, I felt the sessions and activities went really well, especially after I reminded all that as adults, we need to remember to play. It was beautiful. I loved every second. 

      Throughout the weekend, I was blessed to meet so many beautiful women, share so many laughs, be myself, and bask in the glory of the Lord whether it was by gazing at the stars, sitting on the special rock or embracing hugs at any given point. But the most important part of the weekend was not really what I did for the group of beautiful women, but rather what the did for me. They gave me a means to be the woman I want to be always.  

     So often, I find myself caught up in the stress of the days, weeks, months. I find myself being hard on me for not looking a certain way, not acting a certain way, not being able to accomplish my goals in due time. I find myself getting frustrated at circumstance, at myself, at situational events. I know deep inside my heart, is a gentle, joyful, courageous, peaceful, loving young woman. I know that woman exists within me. I find myself inhibited by society's expectation of a good woman - strong, equal to man, and more. Society frowns upon the gentle, subdued, quiet, loving women. I have yet to figure out why and often, I look down up that woman who exists within, too. I'm not a fighter deep down. I am not angry, bitter, narcissistic. I am gentle. 

      The woman I want to be always exists within me, I just do not always tap into that persona. I find myself struggling to be the tough woman when I don't have to be anything other than who I am inside. My last session of retreat focused on being the woman of Proverbs 31 and embodying the image of love from 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8. True beauty is the gentleness and emotion of being woman. As I lead that session, I felt myself being God's instrument. I was listening to myself...listening to the words coming from my mouth and feeling them hit my heart hard. I found myself remembering what it was like to laugh without fear of the future, what it is like to be patient and kind, to love sincerely. I found that woman within waking up from a very dormant sleep. 

      On Sunday, many of the women complimented retreat. I could only give glory to my God. But there were other things those women told me - you are so gentle, you are so full of love, you are beautiful, your heart speaks, joyful, inspirational. The most wonderful of all? Your beauty made me feel beautiful. It was not an ego boost, but rather a humbling experience reminding that the woman I want to be exists within me - I must simply let her roar. The beauty of the women I was with in turn made me feel beautiful and truly an instrument of God's love. I am gentle, compassionate, loving, patient, kind and a friend of God. I am the woman I want to be, I always have been and always will be. I cannot thank the women with whom I spent the weekend more. I love you all and I truly hope to see you soon. Keep on carrying the love of retreat with you wherever you go. 

Feeling Popeful and Courageous

"First, those words – “What about you?” – were addressed to a young person, a young woman with high ideals, and they changed her life. They made her think of the immense work that had to be done, and to realize that she was being called to do her part. How many young people in our parishes and schools have the same high ideals, generosity of spirit, and love for Christ and the Church! I ask you: Do we challenge them? Do we make space for them and help them to do their part? To find ways of sharing their enthusiasm and gifts with our communities, above all in works of mercy and concern for others? Do we share our own joy and enthusiasm in serving the Lord?"

- Pope Francis' Address at the Cathedral Basilica of Sts. Peter and Paul, Philadelphia 2015

      This time last week, I was still beaming from my popeful week. I had spent the week doing various activities downtown during the World Meeting of Families, taking the train on various excursions (and running to catch the trains because I can't do SEPTA like a normal Philadelphian), and staking out my plot of fence on the parkway so I could see the Pope not once but twice. The streets were empty of cars, but everywhere there were people. Kind, wonderful, gentle people. Philadelphia had transformed into the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection. It was fascinating. 

      In school the entire week we were focusing on the words of Pope Francis, accepting Papal Challenges and re-tweeting various Campus Ministry tweets. We only had three class days and so the students' energy was at an all time high. While I wasn't doing Campus Minister things, I was spending time on my own exploring what was offered at night time for the World Meeting of Families. Wednesday Night I found myself at an event called "Club Francis" where the bouncers were the Swiss Guards. Ok, they weren't real Swiss Guards and they actually weren't even bouncers, but hey, they tried. This was a young adult three day event which focused on various different themes and speakers. The night I was there focused on Courage and featured four religious (priests, sisters, and a seminarian). I was awe-inspired, despite the lateness of the event, and very much felt the theme of Courage pouring into my heart. 

      The second night of my Popeful week was spent downtown again but this time at the Cathedral Basilica. We decided to take the train from my hometown to give it a dry run before we utilized it as our main transportation during the Papal Visit. The conductor reminded us that SEPTA was stopping transportation from that station at 10:00 pm for security reasons. The last train out to my hometown would be at 9:57pm. Plenty of time, we thought. We found ourselves helping some precious lost Sisters find the cathedral. We had originally planned to attend a lecture on St. Therese and her parents and also visit with her relics. However, we stopped first at the knotted grotto which was crowded beyond belief. It was so beautiful and amazing to see so many people, families, young and old, praying at the knotted grotto. We walked through peacefully and found ourselves in the Adoration Chapel. Right before 7:30, a Sister walked by and asked if we would like to  stay for a holy hour. Without thinking, I right away said yes for the both of us.
      The Holy Hour began with Sisters of various different communities leading our community in song. So many of the songs were laced with the theme of courage. My eyes filled with tears at the glory of the Lord. Also during Holy Hour we sang the Divine Mercy Chaplet and listened to many reflections on religious life and the family. I knew that we would be missing the talk on St. Therese and her family, but I felt so incredibly called by God to stay for an hour of Adoration. We stayed the whole time and by the time the prayers were over, it was 8:45. It was so beautiful to see so many families and religious praying together. It was a taste of Heaven on earth.
      After going to the Cathedral the catch up with my friend St. Therese (AKA Sister Kim), we walked down the parkway to see how far we could go before security kicked us out. We wound up getting very close to the main altar before having to turn around. As I looked at my watch, I soon realized we only had a few minutes to get to our train. That would have been fine if we both hadn't been super hungry. So it was a scene out of a movie with us running in and out of the wawa and then to the train. Trying every door to the station which had been locked thanks to security and then finally finding an open one that dropped us right off at the platform as the train was pulling into the station. I sat and took a deep breath once we were on the train and then started laughing. It was humorous actually and I loved every moment.
      The next morning, I headed down into the city with my little sister and my dad. We walked around the city, went to Mass at St. John the Evangelist and even saw the body of St. Maria Goretti which was extremely pivotal for my younger sister. We attended Mass and visited the body with Sister Kim. Lizzie, my younger sister, is preparing for Confirmation this year and we've been talking about different saints for her to chose as her patron. For a long time she was considering St. Therese, but after seeing St. Maria Goretti and doing some research, she's now thinking about her, too. We finished our day with getting lunch at Reading Terminal. We decided that it was better if we headed home early so we could get a good night's rest before heading to the Parkway for the Festival of Families the next day.
      That night a number of my friends and I camped out in the backyard and had a pizza and slumber party. The next morning, we were up early, dressed and at the train station by 8:00. We packed a blanket, drinks, lunch and snacks. We were ready to go. We hopped aboard the train and when we got through security, we found a nice grassy plot of ground in front of a fence. If we wanted any shot of seeing the Pope, this was a good spot. We spent the day listening to the concert, meeting all our closest friends on the parkway and eating snacks and lunch. It was a beautiful day. Around 6:00pm, the crowds starting forming closer and closer to the fence. We were so scrunched up against each other, you would have though the Pope was coming...oh wait. During the whole hour of waiting, there was music, prayer, and chanting for the Pope. Finally, the lights and security was coming. Finally, the Pope was on his way. And at a wonderful 35 mph, the Pope went speeding by. Luckily for us, we caught a picture.
       After the prayer service, we headed home and most of my friends went back to their houses for the night. The next morning, we boarded the trains again and this time, waited almost three hours in the security line. But it was worth it. When we finally made our way into the parkway, we found a group of my Nazareth Sisters who invited us to stay with them. We waited hours before Mass to begin. And right before Mass, the Pope went around the parkway again. This time much slower which allowed for a few good pictures but also for me to wave and smile at the Pope. I think he looked right at us. It was amazing.
        The most amazing part of the weekend, for me, however, was the celebration of the Mass on the parkway. Over 800,000 people were gathered there and the reverence was beyond description. You could easily hear a pin drop the entire Mass. There were people gathered on every square foot of the parkway, craning their necks to see the jumbotron or just listening. People sang, people participated in the Mass, the entire parkway knelt at the consecration of the Eucharist. It was beautiful. However, during Mass, the most beautiful moment was watching the priests and deacons process down the parkway with their papal umbrellas. You see, just moments before the Pope was riding down the same street and the crowds were cheering louder than ever. Now, Jesus, the most important person of our faith was in His body on the same path. I looked and felt, "this is my Jesus; He has come to the streets." We received the Eucharist and so many people were able to receive the Blessed Sacrament. The reverence was beautiful.
       Towards the end of Communion, it seemed that the music just ended abruptly or that our sound from our jumbotron was cut off. People kept singing anyway. I had tears streaming down my face at a rapid pace. I could not describe the overwhelming feeling of power and grace that swept over me. It was amazing. I looked around at all the people there, people of every faith and race and nationality. God had brought us all together.
      At the end of the day, it took us only about an hour and a half to get home. Behind us on the train was a baby that had been kissed and blessed by the Pope. I watched his departure via my phone and was asleep in my bed by 8:30. I was exhausted and yet, it was a most amazing experience. Many times I was pinching myself as if to say, is this real? Truly the most Holy Father was among our people in Philadelphia. Truly Philadelphia was a nicer place to be for the past week. Truly so many people were positively affected by his visit. And I was so blessed to be among the crowds. Where two or three are gathered, there He shall be.