How Does Your (Spiritual) Garden Grow?

These words stood out from the responsorial psalm, Psalm 16, in this morning’s liturgy of the Word: “O Lord, my allotted portion and my cup, you it is who hold fast my lot.”

It’s one of those lines that I’d normally just read and fly past without much thought, but today it fairly jumped off the page and demanded that I reflect on it.

“…[M]y allotted portion and my cup….” Is God telling me that I am entitled to him? I think maybe he is. I think maybe that is the exact message of Easter: that salvation, redemption, our relationship with God, everything that Jesus earned for us on through the Cross, all of it is our entitlement and the generous gift of a loving Trinity.

After all, once someone makes a gift of something, we are entitled to receive and accept it, aren’t we? We’ve made “entitlement” sort of a four-letter word, but in its purest form it is a wonderful thing. In its purest form, it is not something that we claim or earn in our own right; it is what comes with a gift.

God’s gift to us in the resurrection of his Son is all-encompassing: faith, the Cross, salvation, redemption, and our ability to live a life rooted in all of these–that is the gift freely given, to which we are by God’s very will fully entitled.

The only shame in this kind of entitlement is a failure to fully receive, embrace, and use the gift.

Lord, in this time of Easter please give me grace to claim and use to the fullest all those gifts you have given me. Please give grace to all your people to claim and use your gifts, so that in using them we witness and praise your name. In these difficult times of pandemic and quarantine, allow us to shine with your gifts so that in gratitude we share them with all. Let us be where you call us to be, giving what you desire that we give, and let us walk with you through this time of Easter in praise and holiness. Amen.

Since last Wednesday, the gospel reading for the 21^st Sunday in Ordinary Time has been drawing me deeper and deeper into reflection. Finally, this morning, it’s time to sort through all of these thoughts.

In setting the scene, the gospel writer, Luke, tells us that Jesus was teaching his way to Jerusalem as he passed through the towns and villages along the way. Along with his teaching, I can only imagine that he was thinking about what was coming. And then he encounters “someone” – Luke doesn’t tell us anything about the questioner, only that it was “someone” – who tries to frame a profound question that really is centered on the self. “Lord, will only a few people be saved?” Can you hear the underlying plea? “Lord, will I be saved?”

And Jesus, in his infinitely wise and wonderful way, as he often does, answers not the question asked, but the real question: How can we be saved?

His answer – that we must enter through “the narrow gate” – at first seems burdensome and harsh. However, I feel like that first impression reflects our view through the darkened lens of sin. Just as Jesus cut through to the real question, so must we sort through our own self-centeredness to understand the real answer.

I think we tend to read this gospel as confirming that indeed, few will be saved and that salvation is a most difficult task. And when we read it that way, we miss the point entirely.

We read these words about “the narrow gate” as a cautionary tale, warning us that we have little chance of salvation. But when Jesus directs us to “Strive to enter through the narrow gate” he is giving us a message for which we should be most grateful. When he tells us that “many will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough” he is offering us a lesson that should make our hearts sing.

The narrow gate is not so much a warning about the difficulty of salvation as it is a welcome reminder that we need Jesus to lead us through it, that we need him to shape us, by grace, so that we fit just right and pass right through that narrow gate.

Thank you, Jesus, for everything in life that reminds me that I need you! Every such reminder leads me closer to you. My own pride makes me constantly test myself against the barriers to salvation – indeed, against the confines of this narrow gate. When I strive on my own against those confines, I’ll surely fail. My own strength is too little and too frail to have a chance. Reminded of my need for Jesus, I beg out of my own littleness to be shaped by him, and the confines of the narrow gate become instead a warm embrace by arms that fit just right.

In a life centered on our need for Jesus, we welcome the narrow gate.

Jesus, in the gospel reading, goes on to tell his followers that when they knock at the door, attempting to enter based on their casual association with him, the master of the house will reject them, saying, “I do not know where you are from.” Here again, it occurs to me that we often read this as a cautionary statement that we should remember where we are from. However, I learned a deeper lesson when I read it as highlighting, once more, my need for Jesus. If I am the one knocking at the door, I desperately want him to know where I am from – that I am from him, that I belong to him. I think that my own understanding of where I am from arises from what he knows about me. And what he knows about me is that he made me, loves me, redeemed me, sanctifies me, and wants me to know how to get through that narrow gate. All that’s left for me is to remind him of where I am from by the way I respond to his grace.

It’s that simple, really. I started to write that I need to remind Jesus of where I am from by the way I live, but that makes it once more about me. It’s his grace that enables me to live in a way that allows him to recognize me.

What will my response today tell Jesus about where I am from? It is not quite as easy as it might seem, because just wanting to live this life of response is not enough. Our response, as Fr. Jean-Nicolas Grou, S.J., points out, must go beyond “desires, longings, purposes, wishes” all the way to “having a strong and determined will.” Rather that basking in the contentment of wishing to live as Jesus calls us to live, we need, says Fr. Grou, to ask God for the will to live by and respond to the grace he so generously offers.

So our question, instead of “How do I get through that gate?” is this: “How will I respond to the grace God pours into my life? How will I be shaped by Jesus so that he can recognize where I am from?”

August 13, 2019

The Hem of His Garment

Much on my mind in recent weeks: The gospel story of the woman who just knew she would be healed if only she could touch the hem of Jesus’ garment (Matt. 9:20-22; Mark 5:25-30; Luke 8:43-38). The story is poignant in so many ways. Here is a woman who has suffered with a humiliating condition for twelve years. She is considered unclean by her own people, even though her illness is not of her own making. She is humble, not presumptuous; she doesn’t stand up and confront Jesus with her request for healing, but rather, in her simple faith (the best kind of faith!), she knows she only needs to get close enough to touch the hem of his garment (or in some translations, the tassel of his cloak).

And then, just like that! Busted! The gospels of Mark and Luke both tell of Jesus’ sense that his power has been called upon, and he in turn calls the woman out. She’s horrified! Exposed, in front of all the people who considered her unclean!

But why is she exposed this way? Jesus does so, I think, for two reasons: to reward her simple faith and to remind both his followers and his critics of who he is and how things work in his kingdom. Jesus saves through faith, and he rejects human standards in favor of the standards of divine love, mercy, and compassion.

 The more I reflect on this gospel story, the more ways I found it applicable to the way we live out our response to Jesus’ call to follow him.

And over time, I began to think that this story tells us something rather astonishing about our calling. I began to think that we might think of our calling as a way of being the hem of his garment – as being the way that Jesus can readily convey his healing, mercy, love, and compassion to the world around us.

Being the hem of Jesus’ garment is to be at the place where our personal relationship with Jesus gives life to our work of finding, serving, and consoling him in others.

As this idea began to take shape in my mind and through prayer, I began to think about the qualities of the hem of a garment – especially the hem of a long garment such as Jesus would have worn in his itinerant ministry – and how those qualities translate into our life of faith and to our calling.

The hem of a garment is carefully crafted; it is designed and made to fulfill its specific purpose. It gives shape to the garment, finishing what otherwise would be a rough edge prone to ravel and tatter with even normal use. By doubling and tripling its folds, the hem gives strength and form to the rest of the garment, allowing the garment to fulfill its own purpose. The hem, as the very lowest part of the garment, brushes the ground – but in doing so, it fulfills its purpose and is neither afraid of nor repelled by what it touches.

The hem of a garment is exactly what it needs to be and is nothing that it does not need to be. It is both a utility and a finishing touch. Sometimes, it is decorated, and the decoration may get it noticed – but that isn’t the real point of its existence.

When the hem tears or ravels, it can distract from the integrity of the whole garment and thus will need attention and repair.

The hem of a garment is closest to the ground and thus the most accessible part of the garment to those who are also smaller in stature. And the hem of a garment may be lifted in order to avoid obstacles or to prevent it from being soiled.

When I thought this way about the qualities and purposes of the hem of a garment, I began to see more and more how it is both possible and perhaps even essential for us to see ourselves as the hem of Jesus’ garment.

We are, after all, carefully crafted – knit in our mother’s womb, fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps. 139). We are each of us God’s very intentional creation, loved into being by our heavenly father with a specific purpose for our existence. Each of us, in the way we live to that purpose, gives shape to the whole of the garment. Certainly, having been born into original sin, we are a “rough edge” that God finishes with stitches placed by his own hand – grace, the Sacraments, sanctification, all coming through the redemption bought with Jesus’ own precious blood. He finishes us with stitches made of trials and suffering as well, and those stitches are set more firmly in place when we trust him fully and accept all in a spirit of praise and thanksgiving. Those stitches are placed to protect us from our tendency to ravel and tatter, and to protect the strength we are given as God continues to craft us.

We find ourselves, through God’s crafting, to be essential to the form and strength of the rest of the garment. If we ravel or tatter, it risks damage to the integrity of the whole garment, and it requires attention and repair. Our Triune God is always ready, and we must turn to him in those times rather than letting the damage grow.

We, like the hem of the garment, are at our best when we are exactly what God calls us to be and nothing that he does not call us to be. Scripture tells us, in the book of Genesis, that the creation of humans was the crowning glory of God’s work; we continue as such when we let grace make us what God calls us to be.

We, like the hem of a garment, may have our “decorations” – skills, talents, other qualities that seem to make us stand out from others. These may get us noticed by others – but as we understand ourselves to be the hem of his garment, we see that the decoration is merely another way to serve him. If we get too wrapped up in the decoration itself, or in the attention it may bring, or if we start to think the decoration is our own, it will get in the way of our calling. The decorations aren’t the point of having a hem!

We, like the hem of a garment, should find ourselves “closest to the ground” – that is, in our right and proper place, the place God wants us and calls us to be. Only when we are there can we fully perform the exact function we are called to perform.

In fact, we, like the hem of a garment, will brush the ground constantly. In our human pride, we may consider that a thing to be avoided, may be repelled by what that brings – and thus we may miss fulfilling our purpose, the purpose God has for us. We must understand that we, as the hem of the garment, must be closest to the ground in order to be accessible to God’s littlest ones, the ones he calls us and needs us to serve. And rather than trying not lift ourselves above it all – thus possibly missing out altogether on the fulfillment of our purpose – we must let God decide when or if we need to be lifted, like the hem of a garment, to avoid an obstacle or a mess.

For if we, like the hem of a garment, sometimes get dragged into a mess and become soiled, we have a Father who continually creates us, his Son who continually redeems us, and their Holy Spirit who continually sanctifies us. The grace that this Trinity offers, through Word and Sacrament, is always all we need to cleanse us and put us back right to continue to live our our calling.

Then, understanding how wonderful it is to be the hem of his garment, we can be what others know, in faith, that they can touch as a way of finding a channel of grace. Then, as Jesus knows that his power goes out to his beloved little ones through us, through the hem of his garment, he can say again and again, “Your faith has saved you.”

Dear Jesus, let me be content to live as the hem of your garment – all that I need to be and nothing that I don’t need to be. Precious Lord, use me, as the hem of your garment, to send your healing power and love and light and mercy into the world.  Let me live joyfully in that place where I am most accessible to those you call me to serve. Grant me the grace to see my purpose and fulfill it, to use my “decorations” for your honor and glory, and to live in true understanding and fulfillment of the calling to which you have drawn me. Lift me, Lord, above the obstacles and snags and filth, and cleanse me of them if I fall. And gather me, please gather me, with your loving hands at day’s end and refresh me to live my purpose and your will anew each day. Through the intercession of your blessed Mother, let my life be a life of service, and let me always see my way to serve your people as the hem of your garment. Amen.

August 3, 2019

Amazing Grace

One of the things I love most to do is to pray for people. In the evenings, one of the last things I do before sleep is sit with Jesus, with his Father and the Holy Spirit, and with them go through the growing list of special people and intentions. My prayers include, beyond those specific people and intentions, all who are struggling with addiction, mental illness, or physical illness and all those who have no one to pray for them by name. I ask for healing, and I also ask that all those I pray for will both feel the comfort of God’s hand in their lives and recognize the healing that he provides, whatever form it might take. I ask this last thing because there is so much comfort in understanding that our prayers are always answered with what God knows is best for us. The answer is sometimes not what we thought we wanted, but I love the knowledge that, as I heard in a homily some years ago, the answer is one of two things: what we asked for, or something better. We simply need God’s grace to see how it is better; with God’s grace, acceptance of all things with praise and thanksgiving, even when we don’t fully understand how God is working his plan, is not only possible but astoundingly full of peace and joy.

So today’s story is about prayers and answers and how God shows himself in all of it.

Sometimes I think that my prayer life is still very much in its infancy. At times when I have struggled with a balance in prayer – reciting the prayers I learned as a child, reading the prayers of the Divine Office/Liturgy of the Hours, and praying spontaneously – I’ve found myself almost trapped in doubt. Am I doing it right? How long is this supposed to take? Why don’t I feel anything?

It has been in examining my doubts and questions about prayer that I have received the most grace! I think Jesus loves a good question – after all, his followers called him Teacher, didn’t they? And he is so willing to answer, with the still, small voice we hear in the deepest part of us. And so it is that I’ve learned three things (so far) about growing and maturing in my prayer life.

First, I’ve learned that Scripture is a vital foundation for prayer. In reading Scripture – daily readings, the Psalms from the Divine Office for the day, even sometimes random selections – I encounter all of the Persons of the Trinity. There, in that encounter, I find countless ways to understand what God wants to communicate to me.

Second, I’ve learned that quiet listening is at least as important to prayer as is talking to God. Quietness of spirit is important for placing myself in God’s presence when I pray, and it is vital to hearing what he has to say to me. I need quietness of spirit so that I don’t get so wrapped up in my petitions that I fail to hear and heed his answers.

Third, I’ve learned that in addition to keeping my promises to pray for others (and as I’ve written here before, when I tell someone I will pray for them, I mean it. Their name goes into my daily prayer list, and I do not sleep until I have conversed fully with my Lord about all of it), it is important for me to ask God to teach me what to pray for.

The harmony that has come from applying these three lessons to my prayer life is nothing short of incredible. One could all too easily come to see the charism of intercessory prayer as a burden or obligation, but that would be to miss all of the grace that might come from simply being a channel of God’s healing and love – from being, if you will, a scrap of the hem of Jesus’ cloak.

And that brings me to the heart of the story I wanted to tell today. I love to meditate on the way that each of us, as Jesus’ disciples, could in some way be the hem of his garment so that when people encounter us, they would experience his healing power. What better way to be used in this sad and sinful world so full of need? This idea was on my mind a few days ago at daily Mass, and even as I was reflecting how I might make it more of a reality, I experienced a flash of what I thought was memory. I saw a young woman, entering a room from a right rear door, struggling to move forward as she managed crutches and braces. I thought I might know her, and I knew I wanted to help her. And then, just as quickly, it was gone – but not really gone. I kept trying to figure out where and when this memory originally took place, and I just couldn’t.

That’s when the still, small voice spoke up. It’s not a memory. This woman needs your prayers.

And that was quite simply one of the most beautiful moments I’ve experienced along this journey. Here was my answer to my request that God would teach me what to pray for. Here was my opportunity to be the hem of Jesus’ garment.

Dear friend, whoever you are, you are now on my daily prayer list. May God pour his healing power into your body and your soul and your life. May he surround you with the comfort of his presence, and give you the grace to know and recognize his healing, whatever form it may take.

I may never know who this woman is, and I don’t need to. The beauty and wonder of this experience is that when I asked, God taught me what and whom to pray for.

When I asked, he answered. He always does. This time, with my heart open to his grace, I listened.

And now this new link in a most wonderful chain is forged. Because I know, in faith and in grace, that through the intercessory prayer that I am called to make, healing will occur for this young woman. I don’t know what form it will take; I don’t know if she will fully recognize it or understand the form that it takes; I don’t know if our paths will ever cross, or if she will know that someone prayed for her. But deep in my soul, I know that something will change for her, be better for her or in her, because God answers all prayers; and I dare to dream and hope that whatever that something is, it will in turn have its own positive effect.

So much about this I will never know; but I do know that the Holy Spirit is at work here. And, my dear sweet Jesus, I can live with that.

July 31, 2019

As the days of July pass into August, and I am reminded – again! – of how quickly time passes, I find myself also more mindful of change. I’ve written about change a lot in the past; it’s a topic that interests me greatly. Regular readers might recall that when I left the convent back in 1965, it was in large measure because I was not convinced that God wanted me to change myself in the ways that my superiors at the time wanted me to change.

Many years later, I understand that God indeed calls us to profound change – to change at the deepest levels and places in ourselves. We are, after all, born into sin, and while we are washed clean at baptism, we remain prone to sinfulness all our lives. It’s in our nature, and the only way we overcome it is to be open to the kind of change that God’s grace can bring about.

The imagery of change that I love best, I think, is that of the water at Cana. There it sits in the six tall jars – obtained by hard work, to be sure, and sufficient in itself to its purpose. In a way, it is everything it needs to be and nothing that it doesn’t need to be. No one looking at it would even think it had the potential to be anything other than it is. Six tall jars of water – not even intended for human consumption, it was instead reserved for ceremonial washings. And Jesus, in the simplest of steps, changes it in its very essence into the best wine any of them have tasted (John 2).

In my vow of celibacy, I expressed a desire to be changed in that same profound way. It seemed to me that as I had come full circle from leaving the convent and even the church, all the way back to fully dedicating my life to the Lord as one of his consecrated people, that I must embrace that kind of change in order to let God work fully in me.

 That willingness, that openness to the kind of change the Holy Spirit wants to accomplish in us, made today’s Old Testament reading come to life for me in a fascinating way. The story in Ex. 34: 29-35 tells of Moses coming down from Mount Sinai with the tablets of the commandments in his hands. The people were afraid of him because “the skin of his face had become radiant when he conversed with the Lord”; yet Moses was not even aware that it had occurred. He needed to share with the people what God had told him, so he took to wearing a veil over his face whenever he came back from conversing with God. When he went back into the Lord’s presence, he would remove the veil.

What a beautiful illustration of the way God changes us when we truly allow it – when we put ourselves in his presence and open ourselves to what he has to say. When we belong completely to him, we are indeed changed in profound ways, and those around us do not always find it comfortable. Is it our calling to forge ahead and run roughshod over their discomfort, or is it our calling to be more gentle, as Moses was with his veil? Do we really want to be so brilliant with what we have to offer than we blind our brothers and sisters? Or do we want to shine gently with the reflected light of the spirit, a light veiled, as it were, with kindness and gentleness?

Make no mistake: this kind of gentleness does not mean hiding our light under a bushel, as Jesus describes elsewhere in the gospels. This kind of gentleness means being so tuned into the changes that God is working in us that they become essential to what and who we are. It is perhaps better understood in the context of a homily I heard recently in which the priest told of Blessed Fr. Solanus Casey, who was considered not smart enough to preach; and yet Fr. Casey reached, and ministered to, and reflected God’s love into the hearts of countless numbers of God’s people. He did it by simply living the gospel. He lived out his faith among the people he served, lived humbly in the light of the Holy Spirit, and as God changed him, he wrought great change in the people he served.

The goal is not to have others see and understand how enormously I have been changed, but rather to live out the change in all of the small ways that life brings. The goal is not to conceal God’s workings, but to let them shine on their own merits rather than getting lost in my own identity.

Moses indeed brought back God’s teachings and shared them with the people of Israel, and in his own way he assured that it was all about God and not about him. Similarly, we are called to set aside the distractions of self as we share God’s word by, simply, living the way he taught us to do.

In my silent prayer, I thank God profoundly for the changes he has wrought in me and for his willingness to pour me out like the wine at Cana. In my daily life, as a consecrated person living in the everyday world, I seek to live according to Jesus’ teachings. His teachings, and his way, are my guide. It is the pouring out that serves him – not the vessel, not the change, but the willingness to be poured out in his service.

And I can live with that.

July 29, 2019

Once again this morning finds me looking back at notes I’ve captured over the past several months. And today, my eye fell on a note about forgiveness that I captured back in March. The day’s Gospel reading, the parable of the prodigal son, is one that I always look forward to because it is one of those “mystery readings” – not “mystery” in the sense, as Fr. Michael Gaitley says, that we can never understand it, but “mystery” in the sense that we continually understand more about it – no matter how much we have taken in, there is always more to learn about it.

My note that morning was brief: Forgiveness leads to re-embrace when the forgiven one undergoes conversion. The story of the prodigal son in the gospel for 3/23 illustrates that. We confuse forgiveness with full reconciliation.

The parable of the prodigal son is one in which Jesus does not tell us the “rest of the story.” We do not find out whether the older son and the younger son reconciled their differences. We never know if the older son gets into the spirit of the welcome-home party; we aren’t told whether the younger son sits down with his older brother to accept responsibility for his actions, or whether the two of them get to hug it out and get on with the business of being brothers.

No, what Jesus taught in the parable was the beauty and healing power of forgiveness, and he taught that through the actions of the father with his younger and indeed, prodigal son. Between those two, there is both forgiveness and conversion, followed by reconciliation.

I think that as between the older son and the younger son, we are meant to understand that sometimes in life, that cycle gets interrupted. Perhaps the older son was not ready to forgive; perhaps he still wished ill upon his brother for the great offense his brother had committed. It occurs to me that even if the older son heeded his father’s words and – in the basic meaning of forgiveness – no longer wished harm to his brother for his actions, at the point where we last see him, there is no conversion. His own heart is not converted, and neither he nor we know for sure whether the younger brother has truly undergone conversion. Conversion is a true “turning around,” a complete change in how we view everything around us and in how we view ourselves. We see its beginnings in the younger son and brother in his admission of sin and his resolve to do better, but we don’t yet see its fruit – only the celebration of his repentance.

In the older son, we see someone at the very beginning of the cycle. He knows that forgiveness is very much on his father’s mind and that it is going to be the first step in any possible reconciliation with his brother. He may not yet understand that a second step, conversion, is going to require him to change both how he sees his brother’s newfound contrition and how he sees himself in relation to his brother. In fact, there also is a breach in the relationship between the older son and his father that is going to require both forgiveness and conversion. And it remains to be seen whether the younger son has fully undergone, or will undergo, the kind of conversion that leads to completing this cycle. And there is yet another facet to the story: What about the younger son forgiving his older brother for his stiff-necked, prideful failure to welcome the younger brother home?

We like to read this parable as demonstrating the completeness and the absolute nature of God’s forgiveness of our sins. And while that certainly isn’t a wrong way to read it, I think we can miss much of the lesson Jesus has for us if we stop there. Certainly our forgiveness, in imitation of God’s, is to be absolute and complete. However, we often mistakenly equate forgiveness with reconciliation, and when we do that, we leave ourselves open to more and greater harm from broken relationships.

The hard part of this lesson is that conversion is necessary for the one forgiven, not just for the one doing the forgiving. The one who forgives undergoes conversion in praying from the heart for the good of the other; the one forgiven requires conversion as well: a new way of thinking and being, arising out of true repentance, which does not automatically arise from being forgiven by another person. It requires both grace and a willing acceptance of grace.

It’s a difficult and painful truth that not everyone we forgive believes that they want or need or will benefit from our forgiveness. Yet Jesus teaches us that we must forgive, in order to be forgiven. This is so, because our own acts of forgiveness are about healing for ourselves. He teaches us that we must forgive, but he does not teach that we are required or expected to fix everything on the other side of the equation. We are to forgive, and in grace to live lives that bear witness to the goodness and holiness of Jesus.

The effects of our living this way depends on the response of others. And the impact of our forgiveness on those we forgive is the enormous variable. We are called to forgive, but full reconciliation can take place only when the one we forgive is open to the grace of conversion – of allowing profound change within themselves and of reflecting that change through changed behavior.

And the greatest grace of forgiveness is that in forgiving, we pray fervently and often for the person we are forgiving – for God’s grace to be alive and at work in them, for good things to come into their lives, for them to have souls filled with the joy of God’s presence. If our prayers for those we forgive are limited to how we want God to punish them or teach them the error of their ways, then we haven’t truly forgiven. We must pray for those we forgive with the hearts of sinners who have been forgiven themselves, desiring for those we forgive the greatest blessings possible in accordance with God’s will.

I do not approach this subject lightly, and I do not mean to suggest that anything about it is painless, easy, or even simple. I have, in my own life, relationships that are broken seemingly beyond repair. I have struggled to forgive, and have finally learned to understand that my acts of forgiveness require my internal will to forgive, my relinquishment of any desire for punishment, and my acts of prayer for those I have forgiven. They do not require that I communicate my forgiveness to the other person; they do not require that the other person accept or even want my forgiveness; and they do not require that I accept another person’s continued and expressed willingness to continue behaving in a harmful way. In other words, my acts of forgiveness are complete when I desire good, and not harm, for the person I am forgiving. And my forgiveness does not equal reconciliation. Reconciliation requires conversion, and I cannot bring about such change in another person; I can only pray, as a forgiven sinner, that God’s grace will be poured out in that person’s life so that good things come their way.

It is then, in that spirit of forgiveness and healing prayer, that one is able to survive the heartbreak of knowing that someone we love does not love us the same.

It is painful, sometimes difficult, sometimes complicated. But with the grace of God, I can live with that.

If you have read some of the earlier posts in this blog, you know that I arrived at the grace of consecrated life and vowed celibacy by a route that seemed to be heading anywhere but here. And that’s where today’s reflection begins…with a story about the “old days.”

My late husband and I met in a bar where I had gone to relax with a couple of drinks after working all day on a Saturday, and where he was hanging out with his sister and another friend. After the whole “eyes meeting across a crowded bar” thing, and enough conversation for each of us to be fairly sure that (a) the attraction was mutual and (b) neither of us was an axe murderer, we decided to head downtown to a night club where I knew the band members and we could dance to some good music.

Off we went, and we danced until the club closed. We danced fast and we danced slow, and sometimes we danced like nobody was watching. We headed out for breakfast, preceded and followed by a couple of pretty heavy makeout sessions, and we talked and talked. And from that day on, for the rest of his life, we either saw each other or talked by phone every single day.

The thing that never happened again was the dancing – the enchanted and enchanting moments of being completely tuned in to each other’s rhythms and cadences went, I supposed, to other parts of our lives, but when it came to going out to places with music, we just couldn’t seem to get it right. We simply couldn’t agree on how to be together on a dance floor, even though everything else in our lives at that time was a great fit.

I don’t think we ever talked about it much, but we were both a little disappointed that what first brought us together and seemed so wonderful just never worked for us again in our lives.

The problem we had was expectations. He expected me to dance the way he did, and I expected him to appreciate my uninhibited style. And neither of us fully realized that most of what had made the dancing so much fun that first night was some combination of the newness of everything, the intensity of a budding relationship and “love at first sight,” and the amount of alcohol we had consumed. Somehow, along the way and through our 20 years together, we figured out how to do the work that made our lives together satisfying and happy.

Sometimes, we let expectations get in the way of our spiritual life as well. How often do we get caught up in the newness of our joyful experiences in prayer, the intensity of emotion, the fulness of joy and peace – and then we expect every experience afterward to be full of the same intensity. When it isn’t, we are disappointed. Drunk on that first experience of completely natural joy, we try to make our future moments of encounter fit that same mold, and we thus limit our experiences. We get so busy trying to find the intensity that we lose sight of the source. And we get so tied up in thinking that the intensity is the goal, when in reality what Jesus wants with us is to do the work – with him! – that makes it all good.

I’m not at all sure Tom and I would have survived together had the intensity of our night of dancing continued. And likewise, I’m not sure our relationship with Jesus can survive if we value and expect only the moments of intensity and fervor. Our relationship with Jesus thrives on walking with him through the ordinary everyday experiences and encounters of our lives, turning to him in each of them to ask: How shall I love you and serve you in this, Jesus? It thrives on walking with him through difficult times, turning to him to say: Jesus, I trust in you. I trust you completely because I know you love me completely. It thrives, to be sure, on thanking him for the moments of ecstasy, but it thrives even more on thanking him for those moments that remind us that we need him.

Am I comparing a human relationship to the relationship I have with Jesus? Yes – because our God-given human context is the way he provides for us to understand a little better those things that He can’t yet reveal fully to us. It is good for me to remember that he wants me to use every circumstance of my life to understand him better, know him better, and love him better.

I can, I must, I will live with that.

Amazed and …

Things I find on my way to looking for other things: While I was looking for a specific bit of information in my notes, I came across some items that made me stop and read, and remember, and reflect on how those items got there.

Back on March 27, I wrote: “Everything God is calling me to relies on celibacy to be answered well and fully.” That was the day, I now realize, that I understood celibacy as a vocation to a consecrated life, and not merely the happenstance of my current lifestyle.

The commitment, by vow, to live a celibate life is many things; but it most assuredly is not a burdensome thing, or even a great sacrifice. Yes, I’m forgoing certain earthly delights – but I don’t see this as a loss or as a giving up. It is for me simply the exact right way for me to live and to have the freedom to do all of the other things God calls me to. It is my calling and, therefore, will become exactly as easy and exactly as difficult as the next person’s calling to married life becomes for them.

There will be moments when I see the easy affection between two married people, and miss that feeling. With grace, I will remember that my union is with Jesus, and he is trusting me to look past the need for those moments of physical comfort in this life to the eternal comfort of the place he has for me in heaven.

There are going to be occasions when I’m in a group where everyone but me seems to be part of a couple, and in my humanness that’s going to feel a bit forlorn. But with grace, I will remember that my choice not to be part of a couple in this life is a choice God led me to, and that it’s a choice that frees me to do everything else he calls me to do.

A blessing I often experience, and experience with profound gratitude, is the peace, joy, and serenity that come with being exactly where God wants me to be, doing what he wants me to do. It’s the kind of peace that makes me sigh, the kind of joy that takes in a deep breath and throw my arms wide to take it all in, the kind of serenity that leaves a smile on my face even after the moment has passed. After such a moment, I hold my head a little higher, my shoulders a little straighter; I walk with a sense of purpose and see everything I encounter as a source of joy.

The simple knowledge that God called me, and then gave me the grace to answer with a profound and hearty “Yes!” – that knowledge makes me free.

I don’t know yet all of the things he will ask of me. What I know is that when he asks – through a neighbor who needs help with her children while she goes to the doctor or runs errands, or the family member who suddenly needs a place for both children for the day, or the friend who wants to have lunch and is willing to come over to my house instead of going out – when he asks, there is great joy in having “Yes” be the first word that comes to my mind and pops out of my mouth.

There are so many ways for me to serve my Lord’s people; I haven’t begun to find them all. But I will keep looking and I will keep listening, and I have absolutely no doubt that he will continue to show me and to tell me. And my commitment to remain celibate, to be his alone even while I live a full life in this world he has given me – this commitment makes it possible to extend my “Yes!” to all the ways he shows me and tells me.

And oh, my, yes – I can live with that.

July 24, 2019

Things do change over time, and thinking about that reminds me how wrapped up in myself I can get, what tiny things in life can get me in a state of impatience that sometimes borders on rage.

For most of my life, I was always too warm. I craved winter weather when I could at least enjoy the feeling of a sweater without perspiring and feeling prickly from the warmth of it. And then it changed. Not suddenly, really, but fairly quickly. Instead of being too warm all the time, for awhile I was pretty comfortable, and then I got cold. Instead of craving winter, I wanted summer so I could feel the sun, and sweaters became a way of life instead of a cherished exception.

This summer’s weather has been variable and mainly on the cool side. After a brief stretch of very hot weather, we’ve gone back to very cool nights and mornings. This morning, I needed a sweater to brave the 55-degree air on my way to Mass. And when I got to the chapel, the big blower was running and blowing cold air down, seemingly focused right on my usual seat.

Having learned in my recent retreat the value of accepting all things with thanks and praise, I began looking for something in this to be thankful and praiseful about (whilst sitting on my hands to keep them warm). And as my beloved Father is inclined so often to do, he sent me an answer – also as often happens, not quite the one I was expecting, but certainly the one I needed to hear.

Here is what I heard this morning, in the quiet chapel where that blower was the only sound and that cold air was the only sensation: That cool breeze is, for someone else, exactly what they need to be comfortable. Can you be grateful for that person’s comfort, instead of complaining about your own minor discomfort? Who is this all about, after all?

The beauty of that moment, the wonder of that small revelation, is that it showed me a way to truly accept everything that happens in a spirit of joy and praise. If I could give thanks and be happy for the person who is feeling comfortable – even wonderfully relieved – in that cool air, that was a perfect step away from self-centeredness to really loving my neighbor. If I could praise God that someone else found and received what he or she needed, wouldn’t that be a wonderful way of praising Him?

I stopped sitting on my hands and offered up the small chill I was feeling, and I thought about how many other things in my day could be sources of joy and praise and gratitude rather than sources of complaint and impatience. What if, instead of venting with road rage at the driver who didn’t move quickly enough when the light turned green, I could praise God for that person keeping me from being in a rush? Or just be grateful that I don’t need to be in such a hurry? Or pray for that person to have a relaxed and blessed day?

What if, instead of thinking about how everything and everyone I encounter during my day is affecting me, I could praise God and find joy in knowing that with each encounter I am where God wants me to be? What if I could see each encounter as a way to be a blessing to someone else? What if each encounter was not about me, but about my neighbor – an opportunity to love my neighbor?

What if I were to be full of praise and thanksgiving because God is showing me who my neighbor is and giving me a chance to love? What if this is the answer to my prayer that Jesus would so fill my heart with love that it must overflow on everyone I meet?

What if none of this is about me? Wouldn’t that be a relief? Wouldn’t it be great to go through the day without worrying about whether everything was going to go the way I wanted it to – and with the certainty that everything would be as God planned it?

Yes. I can live with that.

July 23, 2019

This morning, I am thinking about joy and consolation.

While the time leading up to the profession of my vow of celibacy was marked by frequent questions and doubts, it was the underlying sense of impending joy that carried my very human heart forward. It is an odd perversity of the workings of grace that kept me informed of the false nature of those questions and doubts, while also keeping the joy just a touch out of easy reach.

The time of preparation was a time of glimpses and hints of what was good and true and beautiful about what I was doing, and I had those to fall back on whenever the whispers of “Who do you think you are? Why would God want you, of all people, to promise yourself to him? What makes you so special?”

Grace was there in the constant reminder that each time such questions and doubts raised themselves, what I needed was prayer.

Grace was there in the inevitable peace and calm that descended when I remembered to pray.

Grace was there in the readings and homilies and little events that left little gems in my path, gems of wisdom and confirmation and hope.

And it is grace that, from the moment of professing my vow, filled my heart with joy and song and that offered the most beautiful consolations with every event of my days. I wish I could describe it, and I wish I could give it to everyone I meet. It seems like I went for such a long time without this sense of consolation. Never was my faith in question, nor my commitment. But I do remember thinking that if the rest of my life of commitment to my Lord had to be lived without it, I would find a way to make do with the promise of eternal joy and consolation in heaven.

The wonder that fills me as I experience each moment of each day as a way to serve and walk with Jesus – that wonder is a powerful confirmation that my vow was exactly what God called me to do. That he, in his infinite love and compassion and wisdom, saw fit to reward my journey in this way – it fills me with joy. And it reminds me, when I think about it in the context of the months that went before, that these consolations and this joy and this peace – these are not emotions, not mere feelings, but blessings from my Father who loves me.

Most important is to understand that the times of question and doubt, the days that pass without the sense of consolation and without the direct experience of joy – those times and those days are just as much blessings from my Father who loves me. Those times and those days will be my call to prayer, my call to trust in Jesus fully, my call to ask him to fill me with love that makes me overflow and share with others. Those times and those days will be my call to perseverance and my call to hope, my reminder that the reward is not here and now, but in heaven when I join him forever.

And I can live with that.

Jesus, let me find you today in everyone I meet. Let me serve you in everyone I meet. Let me share your blessings, and let me remember that you are the Word that speaks in my heart and soul – not in feelings and emotions, but in truth and goodness which are their own beauty. Let me, in grace, accept all that comes my way with thanksgiving and joy. Let me walk with you, and constantly ask you, like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, to stay with me – for I have much to learn about our new life together.