Category: totus tuus

totus tuus: Act of Consecration

The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a mighty Savior; He will rejoice over you with gladness, And renew you in his love.

Zephaniah 3:17

“And now you belong to Mary.”

Father said this after praying a special blessing over me after Mass today, along with my dear friend who renewed her act of consecration. He said it matter-of-factly, and that was that. Now I belong to Mary, 18 years to the day after my baptism on the Feast of the Visitation, 2001.

St. Louis de Montfort suggests having specific intentions with the consecration. There were a few pointed things that came to mind immediately, but mostly I wanted to simply be comfortable with the idea of belonging to Mary. I wanted to understand why and how Christians for hundreds of years—particularly saints I love and admire, like St. Therese of Lisieux, St. Faustina, St. Maximilian Kolbe, Pope St. John Paul II—have grown closer to Jesus through Mary. At the end of this 33-day period, I can truly say that at this moment I feel no hesitation, no discomfort in saying I belong to Mary.

In fact, it makes me pretty happy. I belong to Mary.

There are small suggested daily practices intended to aid prayer and reflection in this new consecrated stage of life. St. Louis de Montfort suggests wearing something as a reminder that all you are belongs to Jesus. I’ve been in the habit of wearing a scapular for several years, on and off, but I’m thinking I need something I can’t take off or hide… another tattoo might be in order…

But what a blessed day this is, the Feast of the Visitation. It hearkens back to the Ark of the Covenant and heralds the world’s redemption, a shared joy and revelation through the Holy Spirit between two holy women. I feel really lucky that this is the day I get to celebrate my own baptism, and now, in addition, the consecration.

I am yours, and all that I have is yours, O most loving Jesus, through Mary, your most holy Mother.

St. Louis de Montfort, True Devotion

totus tuus: day 33

The Virgin of Nazareth became the first “witness” to this saving love of the Father, and she also wishes to remain its humble handmaid always and everywhere.

Pope St. John Paul II, Redemptoris Mater

I’ve been wanting to write for several days, but the only thing I’ve eked out has been some partially coherent dribbling in my journal. This final week of the 33-day consecration to Jesus through Mary, which is called “Knowledge of Jesus”, has been more intense in a way. I think I was hoping to write in order to ease the interior tension I could feel building, even though I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly. Today, the Gospel reading opened the floodgates. From the gospel of John, Mary Magdalene is in the garden weeping after finding the tomb empty, and Jesus calls her by her name. I started weeping—good, solid, necessary tears.

I mentioned this before, but these 33 days of consecration have been very different from what I anticipated. I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting—maybe more of an interior desert, something really difficult, trudging through spiritual mud, getting to Confession with a good, rich, long list of previously unearthed sins… or something like that—and that’s how I would ultimately grow closer to God, by becoming a more pure version of myself, someone more amenable, attractive—someone more lovable.

But it wasn’t like that. It went much deeper than that. I ended up wrestling with one of the most basic truths of following Christ, a primal matter of faith: I am a child of God and He loves me—not because I have done or will do things right, but because I was created by Him and baptized as His own.

That sounds so simple, but integral to the Christian life. After all, how can I fully surrender to Someone of whose love I’m ultimately uncertain?

I really thought I had that down. I mean, I grew up singing “Jesus Loves Me”, and as a child had memorized, “Behold what manner of love the Father has given unto us, that we should be called children of God” (I John 3:1). But maybe there was a sense as a child, and even as a young adult, that I would ultimately become a better person one day, and maybe I would know that by all the amazing missions God would call me to and sufferings He would ask of me. And when the going got tough, and I realized how challenging living a virtuous life could be, I grew discouraged… or something like that. Whatever it was, I don’t think I’ve believed—fully, with all that entails—that God actually does love me unconditionally.

It makes complete sense that this Truth would become clearer and stronger by growing closer to Jesus through Mary. Mary, as daughter of God, spouse of the Holy Spirit, and mother to Our Lord, has experienced the love of God thoroughly and received it humbly. She didn’t just withstand the cross to receive the crown—all of it was a gift to her because she truly embraced God’s love and will for her, first as daughter and handmaid.

On my refrigerator, I have a quote from Love Alone is Credible by Hans Urs von Balthasar, which reads:

Faith is ordered primarily to the inconceivability of God’s love… Love alone is credible; nothing else can be believed, and nothing else ought to be believed… The way God, the lover, sees us is in fact the way we are in reality- for God this is the absolute and irrevocable truth.

This really struck me when I first read it, only a couple months ago. If it had made such an impression on me then, it must have pierced a weak spot. I wouldn’t have known that it would also be a central theme during the consecration.  

Mary’s faith, which we Christians admire so greatly, was complete trust in the inconceivability of God’s love. She believed that she was the person God saw her to be. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to say, “Let it be done unto me according to thy word,” at the annunciation. She would have responded like Moses—“Send someone else, Lord”—or like Peter—“Depart from me Lord, I am a sinner”. She had no vanity; it did not occur to her that God may have made a mistake. She trusted Him, and this is why her cousin Elizabeth said to her, “Blessed is she who has believed.”

Reflecting on all of this is what made me realize that I don’t trust fully in the inconceivability of God’s love for me. It still seems inconceivable a lot of the time. One prayer that I have often prayed throughout my adult life is, Help me Lord to see you as you are, not just what I want you to be. But I’m realizing I also need to pray that God helps me to see myself as He sees me—like the father and the prodigal son, or Jesus with Mary Magdalene in the garden.

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through suffering

Our move to the opposite coast was a feast in many ways: we lived in a wealthy area just north of Boston only a half-mile walk from the beach. We lived near many beautiful Catholic churches, historical landmarks, cultural hubs, and natural beauty. We had few friends, but they were amazing people. I assumed we would stay there—in the area, at least, maybe further south in Rhode Island where it was a little more our pace. The house and job north of Boston was supposed to be temporary; God would open a door somewhere else.

My husband and I also refer to this 3-year period as The Years of NO. The doors just wouldn’t open, try as we might, pray as we did. We needed to change our situation, but kept getting no’s from job possibilities and alternate housing. We felt like we were living under a cloud of confusion. What did God want us to do? At times I was angry—I felt like we’d been faithful, made sacrifices—where was the pay-off? I was starting to worry that our entire married life would be this: uncertainty, jumping from one job to another, uprooting our family every few years, barely scraping by. The first several years of it were an adventure. But it was growing tiresome.

In December of 2013, my kids had the stomach flu. In a moment of reprieve from nursing and laundry, I decided I would take a break from sitcoms and watch The Song of Bernadette. It was surprisingly fruitful: I realized I didn’t understand the implications of the Immaculate Conception. I also began to think about the real poverty of Bernadette’s family, and how Our Lady had told St. Bernadette, “I cannot promise to make you happy in this life, but in the next.” What right did I have to expect the right job, the right house, the right conditions—to feel obligated to have a comfortable life, as though that were the goal? I realized one of my biggest hang-ups was my perspective: I was so focused on what we didn’t have and hadn’t succeeded at, that I was lacking basic gratitude, which was the real cause for the loss of my joy. I felt pretty rotten, and resolved to change.

Lucky me, I came down with the stomach flu the next day, and in that moment over the toilet bowl I knew I needed to draw closer to Mary if I really wanted to understand joy in suffering.

In January of 2014, I started the five first Saturdays devotion to learn more from Mary’s Immaculate heart (read more about that here). A lot happened in those five months: I found out I was pregnant with our fifth child; my grandmother came to visit and I had, what would be, my last conversations with her; my cousin and her two babies died tragically in a fire; then my grandmother passed away on Mother’s day. Over this five-month period, while growing new life inside of me and grappling with death in my family, things became clearer.  The knot in our lives had more to do with our own pride over what we would have willed for our family, not what God willed. We needed to be completely open to any possibility, not look for answers within the limits of our own understanding. And, man, were we lucky to just be alive and have each other.

Slowly over time, it became clear to my husband and I that if, for three years, the doors on the east coast kept closing (and in strange ways), then maybe we should move back to the west coast where we had more connections and more of a support structure. But it sounded impossible—where would we live? Where would we work? Oh, and I was very pregnant?? And yet, we needed to move somewhere, our time was running out.

In the end, my grandmother paid our way home, posthumously. It was a beautiful final gift. So at 7 ½ months pregnant—I had to get a permission letter from my midwife—I boarded a plane with my incredible mother (who had helped me pack boxes, insisting I elevate my tree-trunk ankles) and four other children while my husband drove a moving truck from one side of the country to the other.

My in-laws graciously lent us their basement. In we piled, the kids crammed into one room (which they actually loved), cement floors, a woodstove, a sink, a griddle, a microwave, and mini-frig. My husband did not yet have a job, though he was frantically re-connecting with former colleagues and friends. There were times I was really stressed out—I mean, how long were we going to be living in a basement? And every time I lamented about having to bring my newborn baby home to a drafty basement, I thought of the Holy Family in the stable and had to shut myself up. If the God of the universe could be laid in a manger, my baby would be fine in a fully plumbed basement. And I tried to keep up the practice of counting our blessings instead of our losses.

Our fifth child, a little girl whom I call Blossom here, was born on September 8, Our Lady’s birthday. I knew she was Mary’s baby, not just because of her birthday, but because of all that had quietly transpired between Mary and I during that nine-month period.

We spent the fall in the basement, learning patience and trust, embracing temporary poverty, learning compassion for those stuck in poverty, and why hope is a virtue. One of the gifts of my husband’s temporary unemployment was how much time we all spent together. And our kids reminisce about that time as though it was a great adventure: “Remember when the basement flooded? That was so cool!” (Um, guys, no it wasn’t.)

My husband started his new job the following February, on the feast of the Presentation, a little reminder that everything is a gift and good in God’s time. THAT was cool.

{I also want to recommend two books which were very helpful during this time: Perseverance in Trials: Reflections on Job by Carlo Maria Martini, and Happy Are You Poor: The Simple Life and Spiritual Freedom by Thomas Dubay.}

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through motherhood

The steps I have taken towards Mary over the course of my conversion as a Catholic have been baby steps. I’ve inched my way along, past the discomfort to indifference, then past indifference to comfort, then beyond comfort into affection.

Therese, the film, was released in October of 2004, just a few months after I got married. I was on tour much of that year promoting the film with interviews and appearances at Catholic conferences. Several times I was told that I should portray Mary, “Mary should be your next role”. I remember one such time that it struck me how true that might be—that motherhood might be the next “role” I take on. The thought was terrifying and thrilling, but I had no plan to have a baby any time soon. We were going to wait a few years, see where my career went, prep my husband for graduate school—get our life in order.

By Thanksgiving of that same year, I was pregnant.

The trajectory of my life, as I perceived it, suddenly shifted. My career was my face and my body, which was morphing into something unrecognizable. My focus became increasingly interior as I retreated into the mystery that was growing inside of me. Even though I, of course, wanted and welcomed this child, I marveled at how subconscious baby-forming was; I wasn’t consciously telling my body to do anything. In fact, it was doing the opposite of what I wanted: nausea, weight gain, fatigue. I had been taken over by an alien force. I felt myself shrinking back into the shadows of my life, retreating to a more interior existence, but with more joy and purpose than I could have imagined.

I was naturally attracted to Mary, drawn to her maternal image, wondered with new imaginative material what it would have been like to carry Christ. And through arduous labor, that intense spending of self and blood-shed, I glimpsed the sorrow of motherhood. I remember lying in bed, light-headed and weak from hemorrhaging, watching family marvel at this new life that had, miraculously and at long-last, passed through me. I felt satisfied. I also felt like my body was going to dissolve into the hospital bed and disappear. But in a good way: I had spent myself for life, done something really purposeful with my body, and would have faded away happily. I didn’t, thank God, and the days that followed were much more difficult than I imagined, but that is another story. 

It was babies, babies, babies in the years that followed. In the back of my head I thought I’d go back to acting one day, like I’d seen many of my female acting instructors do. But my husband and I were consumed with just keeping our heads above water. He was in graduate school and working full time; we were on food-stamps and state health. I felt humiliated and discouraged much of the time, both with our economic situation and a general feeling of failure as a mother. I wasn’t the kind of mother I had hoped to be. I felt worn out, often befuddled about how to deal with difficulties, bored a lot of the time… and guilty for feeling all those things.

And then we got pregnant. Again. Number four. I was so embarrassed to tell people, dreading all the stupid comments like, “Don’t you guys know how to use a condom?” and, “Don’t you guys know how that happens?” (To which I enjoyed replying, “Yeah, do you?”) I didn’t want to care what other people thought, but I did.

At my lowest point, I was sitting in the bathtub, crying, feeling sorry for myself, but also worrying about how we were going to provide for this child. I was full of resentment towards the Church and NFP; I felt like we’d been tricked into pro-creating.  Suddenly—I do not doubt directed by the Holy Spirit—I recalled a homily I had heard years before (let that give you hope, dear priests, we are listening!). Father had said that we ask for many things in prayer, and God may not answer to our liking based off of what is best for us, but there is one request He will always generously grant: a plea for more love. Ask for more love, Father had urged us. Years later, as I was feeling utterly poured out with nothing to give this new life inside me, I asked God for more love: more love for my children, more love for my husband, more love for the life He had given me, more love to love God with. In the same moment—and again, I have no doubt was prompted by the Holy Spirit—it occurred to me that I should try asking Mary for help. Mary, who was the Mother of all mothers, the mother God chose for Himself. Mary, I ask for your help. Please love this baby inside of me; be her mother until I can love her as I ought.

The change wasn’t immediate; I was angry and worried for a while. But a few months into the pregnancy, I was sitting on the couch folding clothes with my kids, and I realized I was enjoying my time with them. I realized that slowly over time, I had grown to love them more. I had grown to accept my vocation a little more. I also learned a lot about prayer during that pregnancy. Always afraid to ask for things in prayer, I went out on a limb and asked God for a lot over that pregnancy. And He delivered. Not always in the ways I expected, but we were taken care of.

Furthermore, I know Mary took my plea to heart—and must have known how sincere I was in my desperation—for this fourth baby, who I call Viva here, was born on the feast of St. Anne, Mary’s mother. And she was born into laughter! It was the only birth at which I did not hemorrhage, and was able to nurse without difficulty.

That same year, my husband lost his job, we foreclosed on our house, and moved 3,000 miles away to the opposite side of the United States to start over. But instead of allowing worry to fill my heart, through grace, I trusted God was going to take care of us. I know that was the fruit of prayer, of offering my heart up to Jesus through Mary’s maternal intercession. Embracing Mary led to embracing motherhood as a true and just vocation.

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through the Rosary

Mary lived with her eyes fixed on Christ, treasuring his every word: “She kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”. The memories of Jesus, impressed upon her heart, were always with her, leading her to reflect on the various moments of her life at her Son’s side. In a way those memories were to be the “rosary” which she recited uninterruptedly throughout her earthly life.

Pope St. John Paul II, Rosarium Virginis Mariae

About a year into my Catholic inquiry, in a moment of fervor, I google’d “how to pray the Rosary” and printed out instructions, all the while glancing furtively to the doorway of the office, hoping my parents wouldn’t find me with this verboten literature. But these thrilling moments would pass, and I would be back at square-one, uncomfortable with Mary. Every time I looked upon an image of Mary or even thought about her, I was physically uncomfortable.

There were times I was genuinely frustrated with myself because I knew it was strange to be afraid of someone so obviously good. Even if I didn’t grow to love her, couldn’t I at least respect her? Only through my teeth could I acknowledge her importance. My head had submitted to the Marian dogmas, but my heart was lagging behind.

By my senior year of high school, I had decided I would be Catholic when the time was right. I was in an unofficial catechumenate phase of penitence and prayer. The Rosary still made my skin crawl. So during Lent I resolved to say it once a day, usually in the morning while I drove to school via daily Mass, half-expecting to burst into flames from the wrath of God, and thereby resolve to turn from my sinful pseudo-Catholic ways.

I did not burst into flames. (Though I almost got in a car accident when my rosary caught on my signal-turner and burst, beads flying everywhere. As it turns out, it is not necessary to hold your rosary while driving.) Nor did Mary appear to me and say, “Thank you, daughter, for finally praying my rosary.” It was more like a quiet, still grace that continued to pervade my life during a really, really difficult time.

My Lenten practice did not continue. I prayed the Rosary sporadically for the next… well, up until now, to be honest. We’re not one of those families that prays a rosary every night, except during the month of October, the month of the rosary. But now, during this period of the 33-day consecration, I’m asked to pray a rosary daily.

What has made a difference for me this time, though, is that I have recently read two spiritual writers who speak of Mary in a language I can understand. English writer Caryll Houselander’s Reed of God describes how Mary is an open and willing vessel to God’s divine will. She describes moments in Mary’s life and offers her insight into Mary’s heart, while also applying each situation to modern times and situations. Swiss writer Adrienne von Speyr’s work Handmaid of the Lord beautifully and poetically describes her own contemplation of Mary’s interior life. Both of these works have made Mary more real to me, more like a real woman, wife, and mother. With Houselander and Speyr’s descriptions, the mysteries of the Rosary enter my heart in a deeper way than before.

Below is one excerpt from each book.

A contemplation for the mystery, “Finding Jesus in the Temple”:

Why did Christ treat Our Lady this way?

It was not to show His absolute trust in her or her trust in Him (although she was the one human being to whom God’s will was completely unhindered). It was because Our Lady lived the life of all humanity. Concentrated into her tiny history is the life story of the whole human race, the whole relationship of the redeemed human race with God… Naturally, then, she experienced this loss of the Child because it is an experience which we all have to go through, that our love may be sifted and purified.

Reed of God, Caryll Houselander

A contemplation for the mystery, “The Crucifixion”:

Whoever says Yes to a child consents to that little being’s whole future work and fruitfulness, which extends into the unforeseeable… [Mary] hears what [Jesus] says to the thief- that this word contains a promise and that he, although in the midst of dying, does not cease to make promises, because nothing, not even death, not even forsakenness, can violate his mission. Thus he promises no less on the Cross than he would promise as God in heaven: namely, Paradise together with him. His promises, therefore, are not dependent upon his present condition. His word is valid with a divine impartiality, however he may be faring as a man. Everything around him and in him is falling apart; only his mission remains intact. He cannot see the thief without letting this mission become effective for him. The mother can draw on this and realize that her own mission- namely to say Yes to everything that God intends for her- is uninfluenced by her sorrow and her inclusion in the Son’s night.

Handmaid of the Lord, Adrienne von Speyr

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through Truth

In 1998, when I was 16 years old, I toured the Iberian peninsula with my grandparents, including a few hour stop in Fátima, Portugal where I first opened a little window into Nazareth, so to speak, and grew curious about the person of Mary, a figure from the Bible I knew very little about and, as a Protestant, had kept a safe distance. (see previous post)

Through a series of events that transpired that fall, I began to take Catholicism a little more seriously, though certainly approached it with a great deal of skepticism and suspicion. After about a year, after reading bits of the early Church Fathers and feeling winded by all I was learning about the early Church—for example, that it looked very Catholic—Mary was the figure that stood in my way. She was, in many ways, a safe haven in the sense that she was the official reason I could never become Catholic. However true the Catholic faith may be, the Marian stuff was the limit.

But there were historical and theological bits that would give me pause about my hesitancy towards Mary, not to mention the example of the faithful. The Catholic Marian doctrines were beginning to make a bit of sense.

By this time, there were a couple saints with whom I felt a kinship. I had first been impressed by St. Faustina and the other-worldly love she shared with Jesus Christ. When I learned of her devotion to Mary, I had to acknowledge that it clearly hadn’t disrupted her love for God.

The image of Mary as the new Ark of the Covenant pierced my Old-Testament-reared Scripture-brain. I knew what the Ark was, the importance, what it housed—and what happened to those who touched it. The early Church Fathers immediately recognized Mary as the new Ark of the Covenant, this vessel who had housed God, made holy by her Creator for His divine purpose.

Even more intriguing to me was the way by which Mary came to be called Theotokos, which means “God-bearer” in Greek, or Mother of God. In response to a heresy that threatened to separate Christ’s dual natures of God and man (Nestorianism), the Church at the Council of Ephesus in 431 declared Mary to indeed be Theotokos, God-bearer. If Christ the man was in Mary’s womb, then Christ the divine was also in Mary’s womb; His natures could not be divided. This was my first experience of seeing how anything Marian inevitably points to God. Even in apparitions, her message is always one that leads people to Christ. She, by her very being, glorifies our Lord.

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through beauty

Mary and I have a troubled history. By Mary, I mean the Blessed Mother, Queen of Heaven, Theotokos. Maybe you know her simply as Mary from the Gospels, which is how I first knew her.

As a child, I remember the Nativity set that came out every Christmas—the carved, wooden pieces booby-trapped on that angel-hair decorative down that would delicately slit your finger, as though to say, “Do not touch these—they’re from Bethlehem!” That’s the only time of year I really thought of Mary, or any of the other figures—Joseph, the shepherds, wisemen, and Christ as a child. The whole Nativity scene was a thing of beauty, peace, and calm; thus Mary remained in my mind, a lifeless figure, but very beautiful and peaceful.

As an older, little girl, I wanted to be her in the Christmas play, partly because she was the only girl (if you weren’t Mary, you had to be a cross-dressing shepherd). But I think I also wanted to play her because she was the ideal ingénue: a young, beautiful small-town girl gets her fortune turned around and becomes the star of the story, looking beautiful in blue and oddly luminous post-labor at the cradle. You could say that as a little girl, around Christmas and only then, I was drawn to what I perceived to be a kind of girlish, whimsical charm in Mary.

I thought of her a little more around the age of 13 and 14 since it’s believed she gave birth to Jesus around that age, which was difficult for me to comprehend in the midst of my early teenage angst. I had recently become a member of the Quaker church and I was ready to take my faith seriously. I loved Jesus and wanted to commit myself to Him in a powerful way (“missionary in Africa” was how I interpreted that). I thought of Mary briefly in context of my own desire to be thought of as remarkable in God’s eyes, so remarkable as to be given a great commission. But as far as the person of Mary, the Gospels were the only place I could encounter her; I strove to become the Biblical scholar all we young church-goers were encouraged to be, so it didn’t escape my notice that post-Nativity story, Mary all but vanished from the Gospels.

Somehow, and I don’t know how this happens, I absorbed the anti-Mary-ness of my Protestant tradition. It wasn’t as though I heard a sermon against Mary; it’s just that she was never talked about, while other exemplary followers of God—Abraham, Moses, David, the prophets—were talked about at length.

Many converts from Protestantism have had the same experience and shared similar stories; mine is unoriginal in that way. Let it suffice to say, Mary was little more than a nativity figurine, or felt character on the board in a Sunday school room; her silence rendered her dumb, her absence rendered her unimportant.

Then she quietly showed up when I was 16 years old. I had just started dating a Catholic. He wasn’t really practicing his faith at the time, but was offended when I nonchalantly referred to how he wasn’t really a Christian, and worshiped Mary. (I guess I hadn’t quite mastered the subtlety of evangelization.) It wasn’t that he said or did anything that convinced me otherwise (at least, at that time), but the very fact that I knew a Catholic forced me to re-examine my perception.

That summer, I went on a tour of the Iberian Peninsula with my grandparents. The final aim of this tour was to meet up with old friends in Valencia for a week; the weeks preceding were for sheer pleasure and education. This was my first experience with cathedrals: Madrid, Segovia, Toledo, oh the cathedrals! And religious art… There’s a lot of stories there, but the main drive of this little story is our first stop in Portugal: Fátima.

I knew nothing of Fátima. Before we got off the tour bus, our tour guide gave us a brief history of how, in 1917, three shepherd children had claimed to see Mary, and that she allegedly appeared on the 13th of every month for five consecutive months and gave the children three secrets, the last of which had not yet been revealed (in 1998). This last bit was said like we were in a late-night crime show, “… had not yet been revealed…”. “But,” the tour guide added with relish, “many speculate that the third secret tells of the fall of the Catholic Church.” The fall of the Catholic Church? Let’s go see this place! No, I wasn’t that enthusiastic, but I was definitely intrigued.

There was a part of me that wanted it to be true—not the destruction of the Catholic Church—but that Mary had appeared there. I loved the mystery of God. As a Quaker, I had been taught to pray contemplatively. I had tasted the power of God in prayer; I had sensed Him intimately, in a way that I could not explain. I knew inexplicable mystery was possible.

But via Maria?

It was a beautiful afternoon; it was pleasantly warm, the sun reflected off of the bright stone and marble, and the sky was blue. It was a very peaceful place, this Fátima. I walked the grounds and observed the penitent: one man was walking on his knees towards the church. I was in awe. My grandmother’s voice behind me broke the mood as she quietly said, “It’s so sad Catholics think they need this.” I was aggravated by her words, but I wasn’t sure why. I knew I should technically have agreed with her. But there was something greater happening, something I knew I didn’t quite understand. I walked the long path towards the church in prayer. Instead of closing my heart to the foreignness of that place, I opened it.

I spent a good chunk of time in the gift shop, oddly enough, and snapping photos of elderly Portuguese women dressed in black, carrying their purses on their heads. As the tour guide hailed everyone back to the bus, I was pressed with this sudden urge to run into the chapel. I ran as fast as I could and squeezed through the crowds just to get one glimpse inside, then I ran back to the bus. I didn’t get to see much because of the crowds. But
Fátima is one of the most distinct memories I have of that month-long trip.

I was still a long way off from becoming Catholic, and an even longer way from making my peace with Mary and her role in the Church, but it was a worthwhile introduction, one that gave me pause, and very Marian: one of contemplation, peace, and beauty.

totus tuus: day 19

The second period of the 33 days of consecration, called “Knowledge of Self,” has come to a close. I feel like I fell behind this week, even though I kept up with the readings and prayer was fruitful. I felt down all week, pondering the responsibilities of baptismal vows in light of some recent blunders, coupled with not being able to make Confession. The greatest knowledge made clear to me this week was both the weight and glory of redemption, and how little it’s deserved. But also that the response should not be discouragement (because pride is wounded), but in humility with gratitude, hope, and love. I feel a bit like I’m running to catch up, wanting to reflect more on topics from this week like the call to holiness, gift of self, and communion with love.

But as I move into this next period, “Knowledge of Mary”, I can see how these topics all flow naturally into reflection of Mary’s interior life. The purpose is to discover that as we grow in knowledge of Mary, she will lead us to a greater love and knowledge of her Son by meditating on her interior life using Scripture and the Rosary. In his book Totus Tuus, Fr. McMaster also includes writings of St. John Paul II to guide these reflections and prayer.

Before beginning the consecration, I reflected a lot on my perception of Mary, and how it has changed, beginning with my initial discomfort (at times disgust, honestly), up to the present when I realized the necessity in my own spiritual life of making this consecration. Over the next few days I’m going to post installments of that brief part of my on-going conversion.


totus tuus: day 12

self-gift

I’ve come to the end of the period within the 33 days of consecration known as the “preliminary days”, which concentrate on some of the not-so-basic basics of Christianity, like the persons of the Trinity, divine providence, sin and mercy. I feel like I’ve been putting mental bookmarks into thoughts and ideas along the way, like “ooh, I want to learn more about that” or, “I wonder why THAT was so hard”, some of which I wrote about, a lot of which I kept private.

I mentioned this before, but St. Louis de Montfort’s consecration is nothing like I imagined it to be, but really digs its heels into one’s perception and love of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. It truly is a consecration to Jesus. It’s humbling in a soul-stripping sort of way, satisfying in a getting-truly-fed sort of way. It’s hard work, and I think it’s going to get harder in the days to come.

What’s becoming increasingly clear, though, is Mary’s role in the consecration, the “why” of growing closer to Jesus through Mary. I’m sure to many Catholics, that’d be followed by a “well, duh”, but I know I’m not alone in the suspicion/curiosity/befuddlement of why Mary has to be involved, and why this would become increasingly clear in contemplating the Trinity.

About a year ago, a friend recommended I read the 20th century Catholic theologian Hans urs von Balthasar, as well as Adrienne von Speyr, a Swiss Catholic writer. Balthasar is a theologian I never knew I always loved. Even though he makes a distinction from theologians and the lover-saints, I think he approaches God as a lover-theologian; he strives to explain mysteries of God with a lover’s heart and theologian’s mind. And Adrienne von Speyr is a feast to read; I started with Handmaid of the Lord, a contemplative insight into the mysteries of Mary’s life. I had to take it in pieces, ponder it, then go back to read more. The timing of having just read (and still reading) these writers is providential as I work through the consecration and draw upon the wisdom and insight of both Balthasar and Speyr.

I imagine I will write more on this, but the most repetitive and potent point right now is the nature of self-gift in both the Trinity and in Mary’s fiat. Balthasar explains the Trinity as an on-going giving and receiving of love. Jesus’ obedience to the Father, therefore, is “essentially love”. Speyr writes, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ is given to us only through the self-giving love of God the Father, so that we can participate in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit” (The Holy Mass). And St. John Paul II writes, “In the Holy Spirit the intimate life of the Triune God becomes totally gift, an exchange of mutual love between the Divine Persons” (Dominum et Vivificantem, as quoted by Fr. McMaster in Totus Tuus).

Because of our sinful nature, it is not natural for us to think in terms of self-gift. To give of ourselves is an effort that requires grace. But we were created for self-gift, since we were created in the image of God. Before the fall in Eden, I assume we were able to enter into that giving of self and exchange of mutual love, freely and beautifully. Now by the merits of Christ, we are invited into that exchange, but it is a constant struggle with our sinful nature.

Yet for Mary, who was without original sin by the grace of God, it wasn’t against her nature to act in total self-gift. It is natural for her to give of herself without reservation to God and His will. She unites her will to His; His mission becomes hers; His desires become hers. Even while experiencing great suffering and trials, while watching her Son and Lord be tortured and crucified, she is confident in the good design of the Father. This is why she’s the example to all Christians: “Her obedience is the prototype of every future instance of Christian obedience, which draws its whole meaning from the life of prayer and the perception of God’s will” (Handmaid). Even if Mary’s immaculate-ness (that she was born without original sin) makes you uncomfortable or you don’t believe it, you would have to agree that she followed and carried out God’s will as no one else had before her (or since).

During my life as a Catholic, whenever it has come to Mary, my brain takes a detour; the radius of space around her has slowly slimmed down, but I have been reticent to get much closer. I’ll write more about this later, but at this point, in large part thanks to von Speyr’s comprehensible descriptions of Mary and these first several days of the consecration, I truly do see and completely embrace the why of growing closer to Jesus through Mary. Through her, we learn perfect Christian obedience, perfect surrender, and perfect unity with God’s holy will, which all flows from perfect love.

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.