Tag: Lent

Palm Sunday; a.k.a., sweaty-palms Sunday

Well, we did it. We parents survived a mammoth Lenten sacrifice: the Palm Sunday liturgy. Which, in the eyes of children, is tiresomely long and full of disappointment as they are told continuously that no, the palm branches are not for sword fighting your brother or tickling the person in front of us. And let’s face it, twisting a palm branch into a cross is one of the great Catholic mysteries.

It has gotten much easier over the years. Most of my children aren’t children anymore, and this year our toddler fell asleep during the penitential rite and didn’t wake up until communion, praise be Jesus. But hearing the musical cries and screams of children throughout the sanctuary reminded me of those sweaty Triduum liturgies when you have to trust that grace is real and somehow the prayers are passing through your ear canals and sticking somewhere in your consciousness.

If I could go back and give the younger-mom-me advice about wrangling children in Mass, I would say, “Girl, chill the eff out.” At the time, I thought I was teaching my children manners by insisting they sit still, kneel and stand when appropriate, remain mostly quiet. But looking back, I think it was 10% an attempt at parenting, but 90% a worry about being judged by others. It took several years to relax. Gradually, my husband and I both got used to spending time in the foyer or on the steps of the church, sometimes for most of the Mass. And even more gradually than that, we got used to not being angry the whole time we were in the foyer or on the steps of the church. We tried a rewards system, bribing, lecturing—and none of it worked. If anything, it made our kids loathe Mass. Eventually, we concluded that we would rather our kids wiggle and squirm, and come away with a give-or-take opinion about Mass, than hate it because they were constantly in trouble for just being a child.

Things settle. They figure out how to sit through Mass. And the younger ones learn from the older ones.

It was beautiful to hear the musical cries and screams of children in Mass today. I just kept thinking, “I feel ya kiddo. This is a long and strenuous Gospel to sit through.” It was also a rare year where I could close my eyes and—imagine this—pray and meditate along with the Passion. I’ve learned to treasure and appreciate those Masses, as they are few and far between.

As my children keep growing older (they do that), I am realizing that Mass will become contemplative for me once again. That time is coming. And while I’m looking forward to that, a part of me will mourn those crazy, sweaty Triduum liturgies with over-tired, hungry, half-crazed toddlers. I promise now, that when that day comes, I will look at a pair of young, frustrated parents and smile. I might even envy them. A little bit.

with the women at the tomb

It’s Holy Week, the last week of Lent— and the third week of Oregon’s social distancing mandate because of the coronavirus pandemic— and the third week without Mass. It’s so strange to think of not going to Mass during Holy Week. I was doing okay with it. I was like, yes Lord, tell me what you want me to learn from this Eucharistic fast. And, as usual, my stamina began to give way. Fortitude is not my forte. I went to Confession (thank God we still have that) and afterwards found myself weeping like a Magdalene at the doors of the Church (“Where have you put my Lord?”), knowing Father was saying Mass just twenty yards away—our Lord was so close, but I couldn’t touch Him or see Him, let alone partake of His Body and Blood.  My eldest daughter, who was with me at the time, looked perplexed as I sobbed all the way home.

I texted a friend later and she had some very wise words that gave me peace and strength. She said my tears were a gift from our Blessed Mother on the eve of Palm Sunday, a gift to know a part of her sorrows as we begin Holy Week. Her beautiful words reminded me of something I had recently been pondering.

Just a week into the Oregon quarantine, my birthday present from my husband arrived one month late from the Ukraine. The timing couldn’t have been more providential. It was an icon of the resurrected Lord in the garden with three women looking on from a short distance away. It’s an icon I’ve been wanting for a while; about a year ago, while praying through the Consecration to Jesus through Mary, I was moved by the story of Mary Magdalene in the Gospel of John when, while weeping at the empty tomb, she recognizes Jesus’ voice calling her by name. Though I’ve heard and read that story many times, it struck me deeply as I imagined myself at the empty tomb, as I imagined Jesus calling me by name. Ever since then, my devotion to Mary Magdalene has grown as I’ve realized more ways I feel connected to her. This icon was the closest I could come to that beloved story in the Gospel.

But the icon offered so much more than what I had initially seen in it. As soon as I unwrapped it, my 13-year-old artist-daughter noted how fitting an icon it was for this strange time we’re in without Mass: we, like the women in the garden, gaze at our risen Lord, but are unable to get much nearer.

Prompted by her introspection, I meditated on the icon for a time, alone. I realized the three women were in the same shape that, in other icons, Christ’s hand takes as he makes the sign of the Trinity. The two standing women are turning towards one another with their hands gesturing towards the risen Christ. But the third woman, who I assume is Mary Magdalene by her posture, is kneeling and reaching towards Jesus. Everyone is dressed in white with accents of red, symbols of purity and the Spirit. Their white clothing is almost transparent, signifying the temporality of this world, but their faces and hands are solid, signifying the immortality of the soul. The icon is split unevenly down the middle: the side that Christ stands on has more depth, and seems to be higher ground, while the side the women are on is less defined and more flat. Christ’s hand reaches out towards them, palm-up. He is not going towards them, but greets and beckons generously; he does not look as though he’s there to dry their eyes, but stands matter-of-factly, as though His risen body is His testament, the proof of His love for them.

I’m not sure where I’m going to hang this icon; for now it is beside my bed so it is the first and last image I see in the day (besides my husband’s handsome face, of course). It has been a true gift for my heart during this time away from Our Lord’s table, and a reminder not to squander it (which I’ve definitely done at times). Ideally, love and desire should increase, a gratitude for the unique mystery of the Eucharist should strengthen, and awareness of my brothers and sisters throughout the world who live without the Sacraments readily available should take root in my heart where an on-going prayer for them can manifest.

What will Easter be like without a Eucharistic feast? I don’t know; probably sad to a degree, maybe anti-climactic. It’s good to feel that loss, to hate going without. But it will be a good spiritual exercise to remember our Blessed Mother and the women at the tomb who, though they could not touch Him as they could before, were overjoyed that He was truly risen.

memento mori

For years, I was disturbed by my brother’s obsession with skulls. He put skull stickers on his drums, incorporated skulls into his tattoos and clothing, even decorated with skulls. From my perspective at the time, he was flirting with a dark, dangerous part of life; maybe even glorifying evil.

A few years ago, I jumped on the Lenten bandwagon of the memento mori movement, which was an ancient monastic practice reframed and repopularized by Theresa Aletheia Noble, FSP. Memento mori, Latin for “remember your death”, is an ancient practice of prayer — the reality of death ever before us illuminates our everyday actions in the context of eternity. One day we shall die—that is an inevitability. What do we do with this time? With our daily actions? The thought is sobering. But, rightly presented and understood, it is surprisingly not morbid.

It suddenly occurred to me that my brother might not be crazy. In fact, considering all he’s been through in his life, it made a whole lot of sense. My brother was a drug addict for years and I know came very close to death more than once; he also lost friends along the way to drugs. He now lives as though his life is a miraculous gift—because it is. I wonder if skulls are a reminder to him of his own mortality, something he’s probably been more aware of than I have of my own.

I bought a ceramic skull for our altar. During Lent, it sits below our icons. It weirded my kids out the first year, which made me even more glad it was there. Death is unsettling. Having been created in the image of God, death was not what we were intended to endure. But now, because of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross, we look forward to the Resurrection: death is a passage.

For school, my daughter and I have been reading aloud together Everyman, a short play from the 16th century written by an unknown cleric about a man journeying towards death. He is abandoned first by Fellowship and Kinsmen, and gradually by everyone and everything he depended upon in life; towards the end he is abandoned even by Beauty and Wits. The man begs to be accompanied, but is repeatedly reminded he will ultimately meet death alone—save for Angel, who meets him with this greeting: “Come excellent elect spouse to Jesu: Hereabove thou shalt go/…/Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere,/ Unto the which all ye shall come / That liveth well before the day of doom.”

Sometimes in our society today with so many distractions it’s hard to practice memento mori. But this year, with the threat of the coronavirus touching every part of life, it’s very real. People respond to this fear in different ways (some people hoard toilet paper, for example). In Oregon right now, we’re in a mandated lockdown; we’re only allowed to leave our homes for necessary outings. The fear of death has trickled into every corner of life. Yet, death is always here with us, even in times without pandemics. Maybe a hidden blessing in times like this is that we see for ourselves that the chasm that separates us from death is paper-thin. Life is a beautiful gift: yes, fight to live, protect life, celebrate and nurture it. But death, though ugly and terrible, need not be feared; it’s already been defeated. Through death, our life is illuminated. To see it before us is a more true way of living.

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

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.