conversion – Page 3 – it is making me

totus tuus: day 10

mercy, and the prodigal son

I’ve heard a lot of memorable sermons on the Prodigal Son parable: that the father willingly gives the son his inheritance in the first place, or the fact that the son ends up with the swine indicates he’s in a foreign, non-Jewish place, or that the father recognizes him from far away and runs to meet him. All great.

But I’ve always had a difficult time with this parable because I strongly identify with the elder son who feels jilted. In my own family, we had a real-life prodigal son. My brother left us through addiction—he was still physically present, but his true self was chained up and slowly silenced by drugs. It was a roller coaster of emotions and events, and none of us handled it well for the first several years; we wanted him to take responsibility, but the rest of us didn’t know we had stuff of our own to deal with in the mess. I say “we”, but I felt alone. I think my parents saw it as their problem to deal with, and out of love and concern for me, didn’t want to include me. But what they didn’t realize until later is that I was already very much involved—entwined would be a better word—with the behavior of addiction. But I’m sure my mom felt alone, and I’m sure my dad felt alone, and I’m sure my brother felt alone (otherwise he wouldn’t have used, right?). So there we were, all living in the same house, feeling alone and isolated. Addiction does that; it’s a thing.

Even before my brother’s addiction, I’d been the easier kid. I took great pride in pleasing my parents, which doesn’t mean I never wronged them—I certainly did, and experienced deep shame and self-loathing when I did. What I didn’t realize until much later was how much of my identity I’d wrapped up in making people happy, whatever the cost. Then life shifted, my conversion began, I wanted to be Catholic—and suddenly, I wasn’t the perfect daughter anymore. I saw my parents as worried, distressed, perplexed, and disappointed. My identity within my family went belly-up. The night I was baptized, my parents sat in the back of the church, probably feeling like fish out of water. I was thankful they came, but it was awkward—they were uncomfortable, I was overjoyed.

Years later, my brother got clean and was baptized. The whole family of non-baptizing Quakers came to witness his baptism. There was joy and excitement. I was excited for him too, but I had to fight back a building resentment. In our family, my baptism was treated as a rite of dissent, a flood that formed a canyon between us, whereas my brother’s baptism was a triumphal entry. I was so proud of him, but I was also jealous that they were prepared to kill the fatted calf for him. On top of that was a layer of guilt for even feeling jealous—my brother was dead, and had come back to life!

So this parable makes me ask myself: was I obedient to my parents out of love, fear, or obligation? For me, obedience was tightly wound with my vanity because it was all about how I was perceived, not what was true and real, much like the elder son in the prodigal parable. So when another child was shown mercy and love, jealousy reared its ugly head and exposed my lack of love. There is an honesty and humility in the prodigal son, which the elder does not yet possess. If I had obeyed out of love, and had been more aware of how much mercy I’d received in my own life, I would have selflessly rejoiced that day with my family and not simmered in my own fear of rejection. Alas, I’m not perfect, no surprise there. So yeah, I get why the elder son was perturbed. And I also get why he was mistaken.

But it’s given me a lot to think about how I relate to God, my Father. Do I obey out of fear or out of love? It was one of the things on my short, but pointed list I wanted to really examine during these 33 days of consecration, and now we’ve come to it. Several days back I was supposed to contemplate God the Father and I struggled with that. The image in my mind of Jesus is pretty clear and distinct, but God the Father shifts and morphs depending on how I’m feeling. If I’m feeling guilty, God is a wrathful, fearful being from whom I want to hide. If I’m feeling good, He’s this beautiful Creator encompassing me with His wings. I want to bridge these two images, because a true father is both— tenderly showing the way with unwavering truth and unfathomable mercy.

Also… I forget that I’m the prodigal son, too. In my pride, I don’t want to admit that I’ve chosen to starve with the swine at times in my life. When I sin—which is a way of seeking meaning and purpose outside of God’s kingdom—and go to Confession, I am returning to the Father’s house in repentance, in the light of God’s mercy and love. I hear the voice of the elder son telling me that I’m not worthy of the Father’s mercy, not worthy of the Eucharistic feast He’s set before me. But God says I am.

In True Devotion, St. Louis de Montfort points out that scrupulosity or “servile fear” cramp, imprison, and confuse the soul. To this I can say, amen amen. One trait in St. Thérèse of Liseiux that I admire is her confidence in God’s mercy, which in action translates to a humility about her imperfections. I admire it precisely because I find that so difficult. To do that, God has to be seen as a tender, merciful Father, who waits for the prodigal to return and goes to great lengths—death, for instance—to be reunited.

totus tuus: day 6

the Beatitudes

Nerds that we are, whenever my husband or I are reading a good book, we will excitedly punch the other one in the shoulder and say, “Listen to this!” or “Can I read you something?” Several months ago, my husband was reading Life of Christ by Ven. Fulton Sheen and, with tears in his eyes, read out loud a passage from the chapter on the Beatitudes:

But let any man put these Beatitudes into practice in his own life, and he too will draw down upon himself the wrath of the world. The Sermon on the Mount cannot be separated from His Crucifixion, any more than day can be separated from night. The day our Lord taught the Beatitudes, He signed His own death warrant.

My husband was so visibly moved by the passage, I didn’t want to betray my confusion. How could that be so? I thought. The Beatitudes are so beautiful. In my head I imagined a hippie-like Christ sitting on a hill talking about blessed this and blessed that— idyllic, and nothing like the crucifixion. I knew I was missing something, but after a “hmmm” and a nod, I went back to reading my own book.

Fast-forward to now, Day 6 of the Consecration to Jesus through Mary, a day to ponder the Beatitudes. I read the familiar Scripture passage from Matthew 5, Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, and so on. Yes, lovely; sure, powerful. But the next piece for reflection was from St. John Paul II’s homily from the Mount of Beatitudes in Israel in 2000. He said, “Jesus did not merely speak the beatitudes. He lives the Beatitudes. He is the Beatitudes.” I went back to the Scripture passage and began to read it differently: Jesus is poor in spirit… Jesus mourns… Jesus is meek… Jesus hungers and thirsts for righteousness… Jesus is merciful… Jesus is pure of heart… Jesus is a peacemaker… Jesus is persecuted…

The passage suddenly turned into an arrow that pierced my heart and I had to ask myself: Am I poor in spirit? Am I willing to mourn? Am I meek? Do I hunger and thirst for righteousness? Am I merciful? Am I pure of heart? Am I a peacemaker? How do I react to persecution?

I realized I had grazed over the Beatitudes most of my Christian life like the eunuch who meets Philip and says, “How can I read with no one to teach me?” I remembered Fulton Sheen’s words about the Beatitudes and immediately went looking on the bookshelf for Life of Christ. In just ten pages, he illuminates those twelve verses with piercing clarity: “Our divine Lord takes those eight flimsy catch-words of the world- ‘Security’, ‘Revenge’, ‘Laughter’, ‘Popularity’, ‘Getting Even’, ‘Sex’, ‘Armed Might’, and ‘Comfort’- and turns them upside down.” Sheen goes through each, discussing the opposition to each Beatitude. He finishes how he began:

Crucifixion cannot be far away when a Teacher says ‘woe’ to the rich, the satiated… the popular. Truth is not the Sermon on the Mount alone; it is in the One Who lived out the Sermon on the Mount on Golgotha… On the Mount of the Beatitudes, He bade men hurl themselves on the cross of self-denial; on the Mount of Calvary, He embraced that very cross.

John Paul II, at the close of his Beatitude homily, says, “[Christ] does not simply say, ‘Do as I say.’ He says, ‘Come follow me’.” When I read the Beatitudes as traits of Christ, I can see how saints like Mother Theresa or Damien of Molokai were willing to answer God’s call to serve the poorest of the poor, for in them they saw the face of their beloved Savior. Or in a more ordinary sort of way, Thérèse of Liseiux could react with charity to hurtful sisters and Chiara Badano could accept suffering and death at the hand of cancer because they followed Christ in the Beatitudes—knowing they were blessed in mourning, in persecution, in their meekness— not because they relished suffering, but because they loved Jesus and followed him to the mount.

totus tuus: day 4

the “what”

“This devotion is necessary for us only in order that we may find Christ perfectly, may love Him tenderly and serve Him faithfully.”
True Devotion, St. Louis de Montfort

When I finally picked up True Devotion by St. Louis de Montfort after giving it almost two decades of a shelf-life, I was surprised to realize how much I had misunderstood Marian consecration, even during my years as a Catholic. My mistake was to think of it as just a Mary-thing, which is why I kept a safe distance. I was made immediately aware of this when I realized the correct title of the consecration is not to Mary, but to Jesus, through Mary. St. Louis de Montfort spends many pages singing God’s praises:

“He is our only Master… our only Lord… our only Head… our only Shepherd… our only Way… our only Truth… Except the Name of Jesus, there is no name given under Heaven whereby we must be saved.”

He repeats this throughout the book, again and again stressing that the primary goal of the consecration—because it is the primary goal of our life—is to grow closer to Jesus Christ, and Mary shows us how to do that. He writes, “Mary is so transformed by You by Grace, that she no longer lives as of herself; it is You alone, O Jesus, Who live and reign in her,” which is why she is the model of all Christians.

As powerful and beautiful as True Devotion is, when faced with the actual, practical consecration, I was confused and overwhelmed by it. Essentially, it’s like a 33-day retreat, but in real time, all while living out one’s real day-to-day life. So how do I, a partially over-whelmed home-schooling mother of six, stay focused through an increasingly challenging 33-day period? A dear friend suggested I use Totus Tuus: A Consecration to Jesus through Mary with Saint John Paul II by Father Brian McMaster. I’m extremely grateful for this book. It is faithful to St. Louis de Montfort’s form and prayers, while also including daily focal points, Scripture readings, and selections from JPII’s writings. It’s been really helpful in focusing my prayer time and contemplation throughout the day.

The consecration is divided into sections. In the first part, what is called the “preliminary days”, the focus is on the fundamentals of the Christian faith (i.e. the Trinity, the Incarnation, prayer, etc.). The next period encourages a knowledge of self, followed by a knowledge of Mary, and finishes with a knowledge of Jesus. The act of consecration is prayed on the 34^th day, which for me will be May 31, the Feast of the Visitation, and the anniversary of my baptism.

In the introduction to Fr. McMaster’s book, he includes an excerpt from John Paul II’s memoirs where he remembers that as a young man, he thought he should steer away from the ardent Marian devotion of his childhood, afraid it might compromise his worship of Christ. But after reading True Devotion, he realized his error, and sees how Marian devotion is truly rooted in the mysteries of the Trinity, the Incarnation, and the Word of God.

Though our circumstances of hesitancy towards Marian devotion were quite different, I was heartened by this. I still see St. John Paul II as a spiritual father, like most Catholics in my generation; he was pope when I came into the Church and was a true “papa” and shepherd who exemplified love, joy, and mercy. His devotion to Our Lady was so public and undeniable during his pontificate that, though it was not something I fully understood, planted a seed in my heart. I am glad to have him with me throughout this consecration.

totus tuus: day 1

There’s this little blue book on my shelf that I’ve had for a long time. A well-meaning Catholic must have given it to me at my baptism. I have considered giving it away several times, but have never been able to actually do it. It’s by St. Louis de Montfort, and it’s called True Devotion. Knowing it had something to do with Mary, I was a bit scared of it. I just didn’t think it’d be my kind of book.

It’s a longer story, one that I’ll flesh out more in the following weeks, but I finally did pick up that book. I don’t know that I would officially recommend it even though it’s a spiritual classic. Like many books, I think it’s for certain people at certain times. I wouldn’t have been ready to read it five years ago. But it was in True Devotion that St. Louis de Montfort lays out the process of consecration, which is actually a consecration to Jesus, but through Mary, just as He came into this world.

I realized it was exactly the thing I’d been feeling called towards. The most recent scandals were breaking all over the news. It seemed a logical answer, in some ways: the Church is hurt, a little lost, looking for answers, consolation, and strength —time to run to Mama. If I want the world to love Jesus more, for Mass to be reverent, for people to uphold the dignity of life, then I need an example: Mary, as the first Christian, as the Christian who obeyed God perfectly in perfect love, is who I am looking to.

It’s customary to make the consecration on a Marian feast. As the consecration is also a way to renew one’s baptismal promises, the Feast of the Visitation seemed the appropriate Marian feast for me, as it is also the day I was baptized. As it so happens, this year the day I need to begin the 33-day devotion is Divine Mercy Sunday.

Thus I go, full-throttle Catholic nearly 18 years after my baptism, into Marian consecration. I am both excited and nervous. If you think of it, say a prayer for me, and I’ll pray for you.

my meet-cute with the Divine Mercy

In October of 2013, my husband and I were living north of Boston, and on a whim one Saturday morning we decided to drive with our four kids across the state of Massachusetts to Stockbridge to visit the National Shrine of Divine Mercy. It wasn’t entirely random; I’d been really wanting to go—St. Faustina was the first saint I loved and had taken as patroness at my baptism and confirmation (along with St. Thérèse of Lisieux). It was also the 75th anniversary of her death, so there would be an especially large gathering at the Shrine.

It was a beautiful drive, just as one would expect in New England in the fall; the trees that lined the turnpike were red and golden-hued, the air was crisp, the sky was clear. My heart was full as our little family prayed the chaplet on the lawn. As I looked around at all the people gathered there, humbled by the multiple priests hearing Confessions and the lines that trailed behind them, I was moved, but also amused by God’s leading in my life. I first encountered St. Faustina right at the dawn of my awakening to Catholicism, and she walked quietly alongside me up to my baptism a few years later. At that time, I had no idea of the impact the message of Divine Mercy had made on the world, only what an impact it had made on my own life.

I first heard of St. Faustina in the basement of my boyfriend’s house when I was around 16 years old. At the time I would often walk to his house after school. We’d do some homework, then “watch a movie” in his basement (code for “make-out”). On that particular day, his mom had borrowed a movie from their church library and was very excited about it. I don’t know why I was willing to watch this obviously religious video; maybe because I was trying to be nice, acquiescing to her earnest recommendation of this B-quality documentary. Or maybe she knew our code language (it wasn’t altogether clever). But I actually did watch this movie. It was about a simple, Polish nun named Sister Maria Faustina who had received a message from Our Lord, a message of mercy for the whole world at a time when the evils that preceded World War II had already been unleashed, unbeknownst to her. Normally a skeptic of anything Catholic, I was moved by her life, by her suffering and humility, by her solitude and contemplation, by how much Jesus clearly loved her. I wanted that. And that image of Jesus… He is touching his heart, from which two streams flow: one red, one white— blood and water— just as it was at the crucifixion when his side was pierced. Underneath this gentle and heroic Christ is written the words: Jesus, I trust in You.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the Divine Mercy. Like the image of the Sacred Heart, it had found a foothold in my entire being. I typed “Divine Mercy chaplet” into the search engine on our computer at home. It was an accessible prayer—an appeal to God’s mercy by the suffering of His son, for the salvation of the world. There was also something about the recalling of His “sorrowful Passion” and the meditation on His suffering that appealed to me. I prayed the chaplet in secret every so often, and increasingly more as I grew closer to Our Lord and the Church.

At the time, I really needed not just the message of Divine Mercy, but the image too. Home life had become increasingly stressful as addiction reared its ugly head and demanded the full attention of us all. I needed to see that look of tenderness from Our Lord, and to remember that He poured Himself out for love of me. I needed to call out for mercy as an intercession for my family, but also for myself in the midst of what seemed hopeless; I needed that mantra of Jesus, I trust in You, when there was no clear path forward.

The Divine Mercy message, chaplet, image, and the holy example of St. Faustina herself would become a staple in my spiritual life: in my struggles with anxiety and scrupulosity, in prayer for loved ones struggling with addiction and other over-powering difficulties, and in just remembering Christ’s mercy for me in my own continual struggle with sin. God knows I wasn’t looking for it, and certainly not where I encountered it, but how sorely I needed it.

At the National Shrine of Divine Mercy, there are life-size sculptures for each station in the Stations of the Cross.

To learn more about St. Faustina and the Divine Mercy message, visit here. For more information about the National Shrine, visit here.

how much farther?

Walking through dew-lit grass in the early hours of late summer mornings conjures a specific memory for me, and I’m surprised what a hold it still has on my senses. It’s a mix of nerves, dread, and nausea. I played soccer for my formative years, from the ages of five to sixteen, and in the later years of competitive play, training began in August (though unofficially all year). I was never a good or happy runner. There was this one particular run in pre-season training where the last mile was uphill (and was aptly named “suicide hill”). It was through a thickly forested area, which provided some refreshing shade from the August sun. Even so, this part of the run was the worst, the most difficult, the most tiring, the most painful—and it was also when I had no clear idea of where I was in my run—I knew I was towards the end, but how close? And that thought—how much farther?—nearly drove me mad. Other girls were passing me, seemingly energized by the thought that they were almost done, while I felt more discouraged than ever. Their breathless, motivational exclamations as they passed did the opposite of motivate—I wanted to be maliciously clever, but I mercifully didn’t have the energy even to spit.

Then I’d crown the hill, and just like that I was in suburbia, the dark forest behind me, running down the paved road towards the soccer field where most of my team waited (yes, I was usually last), bent over, guzzling water, or lying on the ground in a sweaty mess.

I can honestly say that, while I don’t willingly subject myself to running as an adult, I am grateful for that experience—for the discipline, the drive, and just to know that I could do it and not die. But that moment on “suicide hill”, those aching minutes where I was haunted with the thought of how much farther has come to my mind repeatedly in so many other instances—in labor, in difficult relationships, exhausting days, Job-like years of life—and even annually in Lent. How much farther?

This Lent hasn’t been particularly trying for me, in fact it’s been sprinkled with graces. But the past week has been like trudging through mud. The daily grind of life was grinding me down and I really wanted to hit up my old stand-bys for comfort and sustenance, the very things that I’d given up for Lent (or that I’d given up for life). I’d failed, tripped up under the cross, and felt like an embarrassed child at the foot of Our Lord, half hiding my face, half ignoring Him. To indulge the metaphor, I was stuck on “suicide hill”, only thinking about how hard it was, how much I hurt, and not looking up and ahead towards the finish line.

Yesterday, my family and I trekked an hour and a half north to visit a monastic-community-in-formation. The Maronite monks of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are in the process of building a monastery in Castle Rock, Washington. Their enthusiasm and love for the faith, vocation, Our Lord and thus His people, is infectious and inspiring. Even though I was dreading the drive through a mud-puddled highway and spatially-challenged vehicle, it was well worth every minute of car bickering and the penitential porta-potty.

Aside from the beautiful divine liturgy (which was food for my soul!), the homily, augmented after Mass in Abouna’s announcements, was all about answering, “How much farther?” In short, we’re at Passiontide, only two weeks away from Easter. But the real answer is eucharistia, a word that’s chock-full of meaning. In Greek, it means thanksgiving; for Catholics our Eucharistic feast is an offering of thanksgiving as we receive our Lord’s Body and Blood. As I listened to both priests, I thought of quotes I have on my frig (that I apparently need to be looking at more often) that read, “Gratitude is the root of joy,” and, “Gratitude is the beginning of trust.” As I took the Body of Christ that had been dipped in the Precious Blood, I was reminded to not only make an act of thanksgiving for this Eucharist, but that this was the true sustenance that would help me get through to the end.

Another message of these holy priests that was echoed in today’s readings and a rich homily from our own parish priest, was that as we continue on to the end, not to look back. “Go and sin no more,” Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery. It reminds me of how often Jesus said to paralytics, “Pick up your mat and walk,” as though to say, your half-lived existence is over—go and live fully, sin no more, take your light into the darkness, baptize nations, preach the good news, etc. Lent is the time to renew repentance, and renew the Christian life. Only with eucharistia—with gratitude and the Eucharist—can I accept what has been and have the strength to move on.

Thinking back to “suicide hill” and that run of all runs, I got lost in what I had run to that point. I was overcome by how far I had run, and was sure I couldn’t finish the race. My teammates who passed me were thinking about the finish line, not about the space between.

The answer is not to look behind where lie our failures or even past glory, but to look up and ahead where Christ is raised up on the cross. I have been thinking a lot about two “secular” songs this Lent—“Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails (Johnny Cash’s cover) and “I Can Change” by Lake Street Dive. These songs echo the self-loathing that either precedes repentance and new life, or despair and death. In any perpetuating sin or addiction, it is our past failures that take our eyes off of what’s ahead and concentrate instead on sin. It’s not a lack of knowledge of our shortcoming, but a deafening awareness of it that drowns out hope and chokes our joy. It takes strength and humility to call out to God who is all too eager to wipe out our offenses and give us new life. But if we allow Him to do that, we need to think on it no longer, to keep no record of our failings once they’re offered up in the sacrament of reconciliation, but to be content to “go, and sin no more”, over and over again, until the final race is run.

I for my part do not consider myself to have taken possession. Just one thing: forgetting what lies behind but straining forward to what lies ahead, I continue my pursuit toward the goal, the prize of God’s upward calling, in Christ Jesus.
Philippians 3:13-14

St. Joseph, give me your silence

St. Joseph is a quiet saint. For my first several years as a Catholic, his March 19 feast day passed by without my acknowledgment. This wasn’t fair or just on my part because he’d definitely been around in my life. But, like Mary, his brief appearance in Scripture and near-silence left more to the imagination than I was ready to spend on him. Other male saints—like St. John the Apostle, St. Thomas More, St. Isaac Jogues—captured my attention with their accolades and heroism. St. Joseph was just too quiet to notice.

Yet, like Mary, Joseph’s silence in Scripture, coupled with His faithful obedience to God, offer rich food for meditation. As I grow more deeply in my own vocation—where I will not live a life of big heroics like John, Thomas, or Isaac, love them as I do—my attention has turned more and more towards the Holy Family to find the heart of this interior life that spends itself physically in the home, mostly unseen.

Of St. Joseph’s silence, Pope Benedict XVI wrote it is “a silence woven of constant prayer, a prayer of blessing of the Lord, of the adoration of his holy will and of unreserved entrustment to his providence.” In one homily I heard years ago at a local parish, the priest pointed out that Joseph was so prayerful, he could listen to God in his sleep. Pope Benedict XVI also wrote, “Let us allow ourselves to be ‘filled’ with St Joseph’s silence! In a world that is often too noisy, that encourages neither recollection nor listening to God’s voice, we are in such deep need of it.”

It’s so difficult to find actual, physical silence anywhere, particularly in a home. When I had my first baby, there was so much silence that it made me uncomfortable. Whenever she was asleep, I enjoyed the first several minutes of quiet, but wasn’t sure what to do with myself after that; I was so unaccustomed to silence that it made me agitated. Now, with so much to do and so much activity in the house, I would know exactly what to do with that hour of silence.

But there is a silence of the heart that I am praying for the grace to develop, that stillness spoken of in the psalms, the stillness that Jesus asked of the disciples on the stormy sea. Ideally, one would start the day with prayer or Mass, and I used to have such high expectations—a Rosary! Liturgy of the Hours! Wake-up at 4:00 and pray on my knees! Yeah, that never happened. I have settled for a brief morning offering. It orients my heart and mind towards God in a simple, straightforward moment. Evening prayer has gone the same way: I’ve settled for a brief examination, a brief list of gratitude—and honestly, sometimes it’s just a “Glory Be” beside my bed before collapsing.

It’s the middle of the day that needs so much work. When life doesn’t happen the way I want it to, even simple daily tasks, I get agitated and that stillness is disrupted: if I don’t eat breakfast soon enough, if I have to clean up spilt milky cereal, if my little ones won’t occupy themselves long enough for me to help another child with division, if my toddler is screaming for food while I’m making dinner… the list is generous. If I fail to pray throughout the day—and these are little prayers, little cries and thank-you’s to God—then I grow more and more disgruntled and agitated, and instead of silence, I have a litany of complaints turning over in my head.

The Holy Family couldn’t have been without those daily annoyances. As a carpenter, Joseph must have dealt with the messy business of getting paid, jobs taking longer than anticipated, dissatisfied customers. And like every family, I’m sure they dealt with not having enough food on the table, illness, the circulating village gossip. But they weren’t somber puritans either—they were friendly, generous neighbors who partook in the feasts and festivals of the year. I’m certain they danced. Yet, in all this, they maintained peace and a still readiness before God. I hunger and pray for that.

Christ must increase, and I must decrease… in body fat…

The other day I went to the local coffee shop to buy hot chocolates for my kids; it’d been a rough week at home, the cold weather had limited our activities, and with Lent around the corner I figured a little mini-mardi-gras pick-me-up was in order. As I stood waiting for six hot chocolates, the barista struck up a conversation. Ordering six of anything usually leads to a conversation. She wanted to know what the occasion was, and I explained that since Lent was coming soon, this was our last hot-chocolate-hurrah of the season. She seemed familiar with the idea of Lent and asked about what we do.

“Individually we all give up or do certain things,” I replied, “but as a family we give up dessert.” (And if you know our family, dessert is a major sacrifice. One eats dinner in order to have dessert.)

The barista’s face lit up. “What a great idea! Lose all that Christmas weight!”

I laughed awkwardly, and didn’t say much more. I figured a crowded coffee shop wasn’t the best place to go into the true purpose of Lent. But her response is not altogether unreasonable. In our culture, we give up food to lose weight. When I found out I was gluten-intolerant, I was surprised at how many people were interested in my gluten-free diet, said they were “trying it out”, like it was another diet fad. Besides the fact that a lot of gluten-free bread is made of starch and has very little fiber, it generally doesn’t taste good—why would someone willfully subject themselves to that? I had to explain that I was gluten-free, not by choice, but because gluten made me physically ill. Fasting, without the primary goal of losing weight, is non-comprehensible to many people.

This non-comprehension is something I’m definitely familiar with, and it’s related to why I don’t fast. I fast according to what the Church instructs, the small meals on meatless Fridays, and I find that doing this as a family increases its meaning as we all ponder our gratitude, or lack thereof, for having more than enough. But for the first several years I was Catholic, I tried to fast on top of that, fairly ambitious with new-convert zeal and enthusiasm, but I failed miserably. I got to the point where I dreaded Lent, associating it with failure and discouragement, with old wounds re-opened.

When I was a teenager, like many teenage girls, I struggled with self-image and a borderline eating disorder. When I started to pursue a career in acting, it only heightened. I remember a fellow actor during a lunch break look at my food and laugh, “Rabbit food again?” I’m from a line of sturdy-built farm women, so I had to nearly starve myself and exercise like a crazy person to achieve a slimmer side of curvy, but it was never slim enough. This lifestyle of mine, which had its roots in other issues, was wholly unhealthy not just for my body, but for my mind and spirit as well. That was a long time ago now, yet I still have a hard time disassociating those unhealthy dieting habits from fasting.

It took me a long time to learn that food is not the only thing one can fast from. It seemed like the most ascetic choice, maybe in my mind that meant holier. But if the point is to grow spiritually, I would have to choose a form of self-denial that would truly bear fruit.

In an interview about the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa spoke about how difficult it can be for young postulants to adjust to their new life in the order. Some, she said, have “more” to give up than others. For example, one postulant had been used to ice cream every night after dinner, and later admitted to Mother Teresa that it had been very difficult to give it up, even to suffer the memory of it. In my own lack of charity, I imagine that Mother Teresa, who was daily face-to-face with poverty, hunger, and death, would have heard that and scoffed. But no, Mother Teresa, in her great charity, understood the degree of sacrifice the young woman had made, instead of focusing on the thing she sacrificed.

I’ve borne many frustrating Lents, at the end of which I feel discouraged and not at all prayerful. Maybe someday I’ll be mature enough to fast prayerfully. But for us modern Americans with shame-faced first-world problems, there are lots of fruit-bearing forms of self-denial: abstaining from television, Facebook, and frivolous googl’ing; waking up early, praying the Liturgy of the Hours, daily reading the Bible; picking up after people without complaint, bearing toddler tantrums with patience, you get the idea—these are difficult (embarrassing as that is). Lent is about self-denial, but the kind of self-denial that will bear fruit; self-denial that will allow us to decrease so that Christ may increase.

in response to the present crisis

Earlier this week, ironically on the feast of the Chair of St. Peter, I started leafing through a new thread of news about the scandals in the Church, and the anti-abuse summit. Reading through it all renewed the anger, sorrow, and desperation I feel for the Church right now. There are lots of ways to respond to all of this, and like everybody, I think I’ve gone through them all in my head.

I hear and see people leaving the Church. Some of them are victims, and Lord have mercy, I wouldn’t dare begrudge that; I can only plead with God for healing. But my assumption for the others is that they are fed up, feel they can’t trust the Church anymore, and are generally disgusted because it is full of sinners and hypocrites. I understand this, but…

Yes, the Church is made up of sinners. Here’s the deal: growing up Protestant in the United States, I knew there was corruption in the Catholic Church. But it made all the difference to realize that the Church herself was not corrupt, rather many of its members are corrupted by sin. If there are butchers, bakers, and candle-stick makers in hell, then there are priests, bishops and popes. We’re all sinners, dependent on the grace of Jesus Christ, working out our salvation with fear and trembling. We fail, we go to Confession, we resolve to do better with the help of God’s grace.

Yes, there are hypocrites in the Church. I heard someone tell my mother once that they didn’t go to church because of all the hypocrites there, and my mother, who has a clever retort for everything (which I LOVE about her), replied, “Then you better not go grocery shopping anymore. Because there’s hypocrites there too!” There are hypocrites everywhere. Should we hold our clergy to a higher standard? Possibly. Does it hurt more when we see them fallen? Of course it does, because we look to them to shepherd us. However, they are human and will fall, and we might even see them do it.

Every time I hear about another sexual abuse case, I want to go on a castration rampage (though to be fair, women are perpetrators as well). As recent reports suggest, pedophilia is not just a canker in the Church. I grew up in the relatively small Quaker church and even I knew kids who had been abused by their youth pastors. When I was a high school student, there was a teacher who had an illicit homosexual relationship with a student. She was moved districts. We found out later, she had been moved from another district previously for doing the same thing. Schools move pedophiles around, the Church moves pedophiles around: STOP DOING THAT. The protection of minors is a universal issue that needs to be addressed by the entire human race. Is it worse when a priest commits such a heinous act? Yes, absolutely. Because, again, we look to them as our shepherds. The Church should be the one to lead the way in protecting our most vulnerable.

I also hear and see Catholics (including myself at times) picking a scapegoat to blame (i.e. clericalism, Vatican II, homosexuality, celibacy, etc.). I understand that intense desire to put the scarlet letter on someone or something and get rid of it. But I don’t think it’s going to be that simple. What I see happening with the pick-a-scapegoat-faction of Catholics is an “us vs. them” mentality that worries me. This kind of thinking often leads to spiritual pride. I think this is a temptation to overlook the root causes. If you start the blame-game, before long you’re running in a circle.

Yes, clericalism is to blame: clergyman abused their office. There was clearly a lack of accountability, and a fear of reporting on the part of the victims because the perpetrator in many cases was not just a family confidant, but claimed to be a representative of Christ. But why is the abuse happening in the first place? Many Catholics claim homosexuality is to blame, but I think a more accurate target would be sexuality in general. We’re seeing the consequences of sexual gluttony, and that doesn’t just pop up overnight. Sick, sexual addiction builds over time. I believe some of these men became priests with good intentions, but their sinful inclinations were not only unchecked, but were encouraged and fostered. The biggest failure were the loopholes which allowed perpetrators to live like kings in their “empire of dirt”.

There is yet another choice, another way to respond to this exposé of sin and betrayal of trust, and that is to continue on as before, but with renewed vigor in Catholic life in hopes of revitalizing the Church from the inside out.

I truly believe there are things we ordinary people can do to help the Church—and that is to focus on our own spiritual growth and the spiritual nurturing of our families and parishes. One of the focuses of Vatican II was to instill in the laity the need to grow in holiness. We can faithfully practice the teachings of the Catholic Church, especially the teachings on sexuality. We can love our priests and pray for them. We can hold our priests and bishops accountable.

We can be faithful to the Church’s teachings on sexuality, within marriage or the single life. The Catholic Church’s teachings and standards of sexuality are challenging and difficult for all of us; they are also good and true. It is particularly difficult now in our society when the message of self-gratifying sex is absolutely everywhere, where pornography is rampant, where one is encouraged to “scratch your itch”, whatever that may be; that pursuing your sexual desires is discovering the “true you.” Clergy have been riddled with the same soul-penetrating bullets we all have. It’s no coincidence that at the same time sexual impurity among the clergy is coming to light, marriage as a vocation is also in a state of crisis within the Church. While we call out the clergy’s sexual sin, we also need to address our own, and make sure we remain faithful to the Church’s teachings. And the Church is not just a purity brigade—the “theology of the body” is multi-faceted and rich, beautiful and enlightening—it’s just good stuff. But the more entrenched our society becomes in sexual gluttony that’s mislabeled as sexual freedom, the more at risk all of us will be of heinous crimes.

I have been really blessed in my years as a Catholic to know awesome priests. But they are human and will fall, just like the rest of us. I recently heard a priest say, “A man goes into seminary, what do you think, the devil falls asleep?” We have to pray for our priests and seminarians. St. Therese of Liseiux had a vision once of how sinful a certain priest was; it was made known to her how in danger the soul of this particular priest was, which inspired her to re-double her prayers for clergy. We don’t need private visions today—it’s all over the news. We need to pray for them.

The way of mercy includes calling out shit when it’s shit. It is a good thing all of this terrible, rotten awful-ness is coming to light. It’s been festering long enough, stinking to high-Heaven before we all knew about it. We can hold our bishops accountable and still respect their office as our shepherds. I don’t know exactly what this would look like, but I do know that admonishing the sinner is an act of mercy. We can’t be afraid to admonish a sinner even if that is a clergyman.

In the end, as much as I love the priests in my acquaintance, I know I didn’t become Catholic because of the holiness of the clergy. I became Catholic because it is Truth. I became Catholic because I wanted to be as close to Jesus Christ as I could here on earth, and I receive that gift in the Holy Eucharist. I need the Church—I need her Sacraments, her tradition, anchored with the promise from Christ himself that the gates of hell would not prevail against it. The Church will go the way of her Lord, and I will go with her; there is no resurrection without the crucifixion. The Church is not characterized by the evil men and women that are within it, nor is she characterized by her saints—she is who she is because of Christ himself. He established her, He sustains her, He will see her through.

{St. Therese’s Prayer for Priests}

O Jesus, I pray for your faithful and fervent priests;
for your unfaithful and tepid priests;
for your priests laboring at home or abroad in distant mission fields;
for your tempted priests;
for your lonely and desolate priests;
for your young priests;
for your dying priests;
for the souls of your priests in Purgatory.

But above all, I recommend to you the priests dearest to me:
the priest who baptized me;
the priests who’ve absolved me from my sins;
the priests at whose Masses I’ve assisted and who’ve given me Your Body and Blood in Holy Communion;
the priests who’ve taught and instructed me;
all the priests to whom I am indebted in any other way, especially ____

O Jesus, keep them all close to your heart,
and bless them abundantly in time and in eternity. Amen.

daffodils mid-winter

Here in the Pacific Northwest, we just got hit with a surprise February snowstorm. My first thought was for our flower garden. Because of some previous irregularly warmer winter days and sun (which I welcomed eagerly), the daffodils had emerged from the wintry mud at the close of the Christmas season. I knew there would be a chance of frost, but never did I imagine snow and ice in February. I figured the flowers were goners.

I have planted bulbs everywhere we’ve lived (and we’ve moved quite a bit). At first, I favored tulips, with their thick, sturdy stems and bold-hued petals against the gray of late winter. It was my husband who requested daffodils. I think they had made an impression on him during his time in England; we have a photograph of a certain field of bright yellow daffodils in the midst of the gray English sky and gray, stone ruins. When we finally bought a house and felt we had settled for a while, I planted several daffodils.

Daffodils seem delicate, compared to other spring bulbs: their stems and leaves are thinner and the petals are paper-thin. Yet the bloom has a curious shape, the kind that inspires one to ponder a Creator. A sculptor could perhaps make a single one, but for thousands to grow year after year and look just as intricate each time is a marvel. And while I love the bold-colored hues of tulips and the pastels of hyacinths, the daffodil is a beacon of light in a dreary part of winter, a snapshot of nature’s beauty and grandeur.

My favorite character of daffodils is their resilience. As this recent snowfall melted, those optimistic daffodils that had sprung too soon were still there, bent over a bit by the weight of the ice. Now the tulips are quickly following suit, and I expect will bloom in a few weeks, in spite of this cold front. When the sun does peak out during this rainy season, the daffodil will lift her head and follow that light. Even though she grows in a darker time, she loves the light. Her life is brief, but radiant.

I’ve definitely been in a funk, a minor depression, the blues, you know. There’s no rational cause or real worry, and it’s not unusual for me this time of year. There are always going to be things around me, whether it’s with family, friends, church, or politics that feel like a debilitating frost over my psyche, over my heart, over my ability to love, hope, and have faith. I absorb the gray around me. These resilient flowers of mid-winter by virtue of their existence glorify their Creator. For we humans, it is an act of the will to turn our face upwards, to orient our lives towards the source of light and warmth. The hope is that we Christians will, as St. Gianna Molla said, be “living examples of the beauty and grandeur of Christianity”: noticeable, resilient, even stubbornly growing, organisms of beauty, standing out against the gray, testifying to the light.

God knows I am not good at that; I like to sit in the mud and say, “Look at all this mud. It’s gross. That sucks.” It seems to be the small things, things that are easily overlooked or forgotten, easily trampled underfoot, that remind me to look upwards. The daffodil is certainly one, a herald of hope for the spring to come.