How Does Your (Spiritual) Garden Grow?

Those of us who grew up Catholic and went to high school or college in the 1950s and 1960s lived in a world where “faith” — for the person who had it — often consisted primarily of adhering to the rituals and rules of the Church and reciting memorized prayers. That isn’t to say that people were not holy or that they lacked in belief; however, the practice of faith was more a behavior and less a response for many people.

We also grew up with another experience, particularly if we went to public schools and/or colleges: We were bombarded with the popular Marxist claim that “Religion is the opium of the people.” Surrounded by a secular world, we were constantly chided for seeking comfort in anything not defined by our own strength. We were encouraged to build ourselves up without reference to any need for a spiritual foundation. To have, and practice, religious faith was to — gasp! — admit to a level of human weakness that bespoke helplessness. Faith was a self-indulgent trapping for hapless humans who had not learned the reality of their existence and who failed to build their own strength.

I remember taking an economics class when I was in college; the professor, an avowed and proud Marxist, was fond of saying that there was nothing “wrong” with religious faith; the problem, he said, was that people let it take over their lives and lull them into a weakened state where they cannot deal with the world around them. He dismissed faith as a crutch that people used as a means of supporting their weakness and, as such, a practice that contributed to their weakness.

This morning, as I was returning home from the 6:30 a.m. Mass, I found myself thinking: Is faith a crutch? Is it indeed an opiate? Using the word “opiate” in these times of terrible and pervasive addictions and overdose deaths gives the old Marxist theory a truly terrifying connotation. So what about it?

My thoughts began to tumble over each other so fast that I had to grab a pen and paper before I even got my coat off so that I could jot some things down lest I lose them. And here is what formed itself in my mind as I considered the question.

Both the Marxist statement and our Catholic Christian view of faith (Marx calls it religion, but his meaning, in the longer version of the quotation, relates to the broader context of faith) are rooted in a pair of truths: We humans are weak creatures, and we humans fear our weakness and seek to cure it.

Where the two ways of thinking diverge, I think, is in what we should do about it. Marx says we should seek ways in which we ourselves can make ourselves stronger. Thinking that is rooted in faith says we should seek the one reliable source of strength — God, as He has revealed Himself to us — even as we acknowledge that we don’t have within ourselves the capacity to create our own strength against evil.

Now, my purpose here is not to foil the Marxist argument against faith; that’s for much smarter people. I’m going to say one more thing about Marx’s statement, and then I’m done referring to it specifically. It seems to me that the reference to religion/faith as the opium of the people is rooted in, and expressive of, a deep fear of the very weakness it seeks to cure. If we fear the weakness, it follows that we will flail about trying to escape it.

This is where faith proves itself in fact to be a crutch. That’s right. I said it. Faith is, in fact, a crutch.

It gives strength where our own weakness causes us to fall.

It provides assistance where we lack the strength or skill to move forward.

Used properly, it builds strength rather than supporting or encouraging weakness.

By myself, I am weak. I’ve proved over and over again that I’m simply not capable, all on my own, of being a good person. That is a truth for each of us that is both hard to admit and essential to finding our way to strength. As St. Paul taught, left to our own devices we are not capable of doing good: “For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want” (Romans 7:19).

The philosophy of the world is one of self-reliance, of building ourselves up with all of the things the world values so that in the eyes of the world we are “strong.” That path leads to all sorts of complicated questions and complex situations.

Not so, the life of faith. Faith is very, very simple.

Faith says: I believe. I believe in God. Everything I need or, in my life as a beloved child of God, could possibly want, flows from the Source of that simple faith.

The life we live in faith acknowledges our essential weakness, but instead of being based on fear, it is based on the trust that comes from that simple faith. It does not look for proof; rather, it thrives on that trust.

The life we live in faith is one where we are daily reminded of our essential weakness, but instead of groveling in it, we receive grace to turn to the one reliable Source of the strength we need.

The life we live in faith is Life Itself. In this life, we know that left on our own we would “practice the evil [we] do not want,” but we also know that in reliance on the Source of our strength, Jesus Christ, we can see and walk the Path to which He calls us. In the sacraments, He comes to us and infuses us with His own strength — so far beyond what we could ever summon from our own selves that it can’t be measured.

Yes, Lord, I am weak — and my weakness is a cause for celebration, because to heal it requires that I turn to You. By the grace of Your Holy Spirit, I rejoice in Your strength. Let me always see that in faith, I have the crutch I need to gain strength in You, the help I need to turn to You, and the Source of the strength I need to live the life of holiness to which You have called me. 

Sparky — that’s me — took a week’s hiatus from writing here in order to spend time caring for a wonderful little person while that wonderful little person’s parents were out of town for a mini-vacation. This tiny granddaughter of mine is the light of my life. She’s my renewal, my reminder that no matter what mistakes I’ve made in life I can always do better, and my chance to show that I can and will be a better person.

I very deliberately took a break from writing, because I did not want to settle in for a writing session and then feel put upon because she woke up or because she invited me to come and play with her or because she just wanted to tell me a story about something in her life.

The five days she spent with me were a wonderful opportunity to spend a significant amount of time putting someone else first, to devote myself entirely to her and her wellbeing and growth and to just love her and hug and snuggle. We didn’t get to do all the reading and storytelling and other activities that I had originally planned, because these plans we make are so often subject to the vagaries of life.

About halfway through her first night with me, she woke up about 1:00 a.m. and with little warning, threw up after drinking a signficant quantity of her milk. I had been asleep only about an hour, and when it happened I had to get myself wide awake and then take a second to figure out what to do. One complete change of crib bedding and pajamas later, after putting a towel down to protect the fresh (and only remaining) crib sheet, it became apparent that my angel was going to have trouble getting  back to sleep. We tried lying down in my bed together, but as soon as we dozed off she rolled off the edge. I didn’t know I could wake up that fast or move that fast! As horrified as I was, she was fine, and at this point — about 3 a.m. — she willingly went back to sleep.

We were both up before 7:00, and she seemed to feel all right, so we began trying diluted apple juice. Before long, she begged for milk. And in the midst of the relative chaos of her cousins’ arrival — one to spend the day, the other to spend a couple of hours before his late-start Wednesday at school — just as the boys’ mother was returning to take the older one to school, my sweet girl lost it again all over the kitchen floor.

I considered the fact that you haven’t really multitasked unless you are trying to clean up a puddle the size of Montana while trying to get a 7-year-old ready to get out the door and explaining to a 4-year-old why the 2-year-old threw up. I now know why I kept that supply of old dish towels and utility towels in the bottom drawer, and I now know I may be capable of just about anything.

And you know, as I mopped up for one and got outerwear on another and explained sick stomachs to the third, I gave thanks to my God and Father. I gave thanks that I could do and handle things that honestly would have put me over the edge not too many years ago. I gave thanks for the grace to be patient, to put these sweet children first, and to show them, first, foremost, and always, the love that helps them learn trust. I gave thanks that once again, God had showed me, in this most unexpected way of spending my day, exactly where He wanted me to be and exactly what He had for me to do in that time.

Wednesday is the day I always take care of this little one; the plan was for her to attend daycare as usual on Thursday and Friday. As the day went on, it was apparent that she had picked up yet another virus. Although her tummy got better, she had a cough and the kind of general malaise that tells you that going to daycare the next day is not a good plan. No fever meant that technically, she could go, but all I had to do was look at her to know that the best place for her was right here at Grannie’s house. And here she stayed.

On Friday, she did go to daycare. When we got there, homesickness set in, and it took some time for her to settle in. I gave thanks for the wonderful teacher who held her and comforted her and eased her into her day. I gave thanks that this little one has many people who love her and cherish her, and I gave thanks that at the end of that day, she would have learned that when I told her I would be back to pick her up, I meant it and kept my promise, and she would know how loved she is.

My five days and nights with this darling child flew by all too quickly, and I’m already looking forward to the next time her mommy and daddy need me to care for her for a few days so we can get on with the plans that her illness interrupted.

Any time I have occasion to count my blessings,my family is at the very top of the list. Yes,  my house is clean and quiet this morning; yes, I’m back to my routine, back to daily Mass and writing my blog and all the other things I do. The best part is that amid all that routine, and yes, amid the comfort of it, I’m ready to listen for where God wants me to go and what He wants me to do with each moment and hour and day, because I am firm in the knowledge that my greatest joy in this life is still to be in that place, doing what He calls me to do.

Tomorrow, back to the spiritual garden….

Although I was raised in the Catholic faith, went to Catechism faithfully, and even spent several years immersed in the faith as a fledgling religious, I never understood salvation as a plan conceived by God for His beloved children; I never saw the Bible, in its integral essence, as the story of that plan.

It was not until the winter of 2015, when I attended a Bible study of several weeks’ duration, that I began to see salvation in this light and to explore the entirety of this plan and story.

Never mind that “Bible study” and “Catholic” weren’t actually used in the same sentence while I was growing up. “Bible study” was something our Protestant friends did, whereas we had our priests to explain all that. We really were not encouraged to read the Bible on our own. Thus it was something of a culture-shock, when I returned to the Catholic church after more than 45 years away, to find the parishes I attended offering all kinds of group Bible study. I quickly found myself newly immersed, and I think I may have learned more in the past six years than all the years before that.

The Bible study I attended that winter of 2014-2015 was based on a video series presented by Jeff Cavins, and it changed, profoundly, the way I viewed both the Bible and the way God interacts with His people. For the first time, I began to see thGod had a plan for redemption. Before I attended this study group, I had grasped the major points: Man sinned, heaven was closed, God sent Jesus to save us, Jesus died and then rose from the dead,at from the first moment of mankind’s sin and separation from God,  saving us and reopening heaven. With this Bible study, I could begin to see what God had really done. Cavins’ materials included a timeline for the story of salvation which puts and of its pieces into the context of world history, and it was fascinating.

Just as I was getting my mind wrapped around some of this new perspective, I led a small faith-sharing group as we explored a wonderful series on prayer. This was my first ever exposure to Lectio divina — literally, praying with Scripture — and once more, my spiritual life changed profoundly. As I explored, learned, and practiced lectio divina, I began to learn and understand the privilege and value of listening for God’s voice as I pray.

And out of all of this change comes growth. The more I grow in my spiritual life, the more I realize how much more nourishment my soul needs. The more I learn, the more I see there is to learn and know. The more I know, the more I am compelled to share. The more I pray, the more I find to pray for and about.

In the midst of it all, I am, every now and then, completely astonished — in what I’d like to think is a child-like way — at the new insights that present themselves.

This morning, I found that my focus in prayer needed to be on just being in God’s presence. I thought of Him turning and His face lighting up as I came to find Him and as He welcomed me. And then I thought of my soul simply settling in, leaning in to be close and know what it is that He wants for me today. Just being there. (This process is both simpler and more complex since my beliefs do not include a picture of God as a grand old man in white robes with white hair and a halo. As my life continues, I experience God more and more as a surrounding and encompassing and perfusing Presence, a Person without the need for physical traits…but that’s probably a different blog post.)

Anyway, while I was just being there with Him and listening, I began to think about the whole vast plan of salvation that is laid out for us, and how we, at this point in history, are the beneficiaries of the fact that this plan was completed in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. And of course, I thought about the magnitude of God’s gift, that He sent His Son to take on human form and die for our sins.

That’s when it hit me. That’s when I stopped in my tracks, brought to amazement by the realization that what God actually did was give Himself to save us.

That is the essence of the doctrine of the Holy Trinity. God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are God. Three in One, One in Three.

I like to think that what God actually said, when He conceived of His plan of salvation, was something like, “My people have separated themselves from me by sin. I love them so much that I am going to give my very self to get them back.”

The mystery of the Holy Trinity is so very, very far beyond what I can comprehend. Human attempts to describe it or explain it come up short. But the faith to believe that mystery — that’s simple.

I believe.

And when Jesus came in human form to live and teach and die and rise again, He came not just as a man but as all of God.

The awesome, mighty God Who created and Who rules the entire universe came in human form to live and teach and die and rise again. Because He loves us.

That same awesome, mighty God Who created and Who rules the entire universe comes under forms of bread and wine to feed us with His own Body and Blood in the Eucharist. Every. Single. Time.

That same awesome, mighty God Who created and Who rules the entire universe knows my name, knows each and every one of His creatures by name and loves us all individually and personally. He sees us in sin, individually and personally. He forgives us and renews us in love, individually and personally.

“My people have separated themselves from me by sin. I love them so much that I am going to give my very self to get them back.”

I can live with that.

This morning, I spent a few minutes revisiting some reflections I wrote several months ago, and I came upon this one. In recent days, I’ve been thinking and writing about the Spirit’s gift of wonder and awe, and I enjoyed revisiting this piece that reflects how I’ve experienced it. I am amazed, daily, at how God pours joy and consolation over my living in faith.  Here is the piece:

During the Eucharistic Liturgy, just prior to Holy Communion, the celebrant holds up the Precious Body and Precious Blood, saying, “Behold the Lamb of God; behold Him Who takes away the sins of the world.” And we respond, like the centurion in Luke 7:6-7, “Lord, I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof; but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”

Lord, forgive me my distractions! But I see that most of us, kneeling as we are in the very Presence of Jesus Himself, do so with bowed heads and lowered eyes. In that manner we show our worship and adoration, I know; and yet I have such a clear recollection of a weekday Mass not so many years ago, when I knelt just so with bowed head and closed eyes and the words came suddenly and clearly into my mind:

“Look at Me.”

My head came up and my eyes opened, and I must admit that I wondered for a moment if someone had actually spoken the words.

And I looked at Him, and in doing so my heart was opened so widely to Him. My outpouring of prayer and adoration is met daily in that moment by such an influx of grace and mercy. That was the first time that I began to meditate on how it is that I can see with my human eyes only bread and wine, but in faith I have certainty that I am truly seeing Jesus. I am in His presence and He knows me by my name.

In this very sacred moment of the Mass, when we behold Jesus Who redeems us and Who will also judge us, we come to understand that He is the very Word that we ask Him to say so that we may be healed.

In this moment, we are asking:

Let the Word be spoken to us,

Let the Word be spoken in us,

Let the Word be spoken of us,

Let the Word be spoken by us,

Let the Word be spoken through us.

I do not know if I am capable of even a limited understanding of the wonder of this time in the Mass, when Jesus makes Himself present in these forms of bread and wine. I do not know if I will ever have the capacity to fully experience the joy and profound humility my soul experiences in His Real Presence. I do not know if I will ever have words to express the absolute wonder of this experience.

I do know that in these moments, He offers a clear invitation to us. He longs for us to come to Him, receive Him, be nourished by Him. This walk from my seat to the front of the chapel where I receive Him – and this walk back to my place, when He is truly present within me: These are the most precious and important steps I will take in my day. Here I receive the only gift that can truly satisfy every need.

Dear Jesus, my Lord, my King, my Savior, my Friend, thank You for coming to me in this most precious of sacraments. Thank you for this greatest of gifts. In receiving You I am nourished for the work You call me to do in this world. You come to me because You love me and long for me; please stay with me so that I may always know Your love and carry it with me for those I will meet throughout this day.

My dearest Father, I went to sleep thinking about You last night, and while I was sleeping, You brought Your world into a New Year. And I woke up in this New Year feeling thankful and full of anticipation. 

This new year doesn’t happen — it never gets here — without Your love and grace. You are the God and Creator of the Universe, and the Universe is full of You and of Your glory. It is immense, beyond measure, and You are even beyond that. And still You love and care for and nurture Your people one by one by one, loving each for the unique self You brought into being in Your infinite wisdom.

Father, the more I know about You and how You love me, the more I want to know. And here I am this morning, looking ahead to this New Year You have given me.

Right here, right now, Father, I offer it back to You. I offer it in the same spirit of love and trust that Hannah offered Samuel back to you. What she longed for and prayed for and was granted, she gave back to You in love. I do the same with this new year. Take it, as You did Samuel, and please make of it a wonder of love and service and everything You want to accomplish through me. 

Father, in You I love myself and cherish each day that You give me in life. You love me enough to make me a part of Your plan of salvation. Let me live each day, and each moment in each day, the way a redeemed and beloved child lives. 

For myself, Father, my prayer is simple: teach me, please, to love and trust You so completely that I stay free of concern about things that don’t matter and remain free of mind and heart to listen for Your call each day, see You in all the people I encounter, and willingly serve You in all the ways You ask me to. 

Grant me the grace, please, to remember to offer myself and all that I do to You each day.

Make my work and all my actions in life a prayer, one that is given merit by Your own beloved Son’s redemptive act, and use it for all those inentions I pray for daily, especially for those suffering from addiction, mental illness, and physical illness, for the souls in Purgatory, and especially for all those on earth and in Purgatory who suffer and wait and have no one else to pray especially for them. I ask for Your healing power and for the grace that comes from the Holy Spirit to be poured out on them, their families, and their caregivers. I seek for them the grace to recognize Your healing and Your love, even when it comes in ways they are not expecting. Please let them feel the peace and comfort of Your hand on them, Lord. 

Dearest Father, I find my biggest challenge is in praying for this great country I live in and the world that surrounds it. Both are troubled, both are victims of greed and all kinds of other sin, and both seem, to the mind that does not know You, to be in a hopeless state. 

I know better, though. You are the One for Whom nothing is impossible, and Your Son is the One Who promised that whatever we ask of You in His name, You will grant it. 

And so I ask, Father, in Jesus’ name, that in this coming year You fix this world and this country that so desperately need Your love and grace. Speak in the hearts and souls of leaders, monarchs, elected officials, and self-appointed dictators, and pour Your grace on them so that they act in the best interests and for the good of the people in their charge. Please help and heal all who suffer as a result of natural disasters, and help all of us to become better stewards of the environment in this beautiful world You have given us. 

Grant that Your Holy Spirit may infuse the hearts of Pope Francis, the cardinals and bishops, all the clergy, those consecrated to religious life, and all those who teach and carry Your Word to Your people, so that they act in love and with moral integrity. 

School the hearts of Your people to stand against sin in all its forms and against Satan and all his blandishments. Give Your angels charge over us all to lead us and guide us and remind us of Your love, to keep us safe from both physical and spiritual harm. 

Lead Your people, Lord, through this coming year; lead them past all obstacles to true faith and trust. Lead them to fulfill Your plan for them, in Your infinite love for them as so many unique individuals. 

Lead Your people, Lord, to praise Your name for all to hear. Lead Your people to bear witness to You, for You and You alone are the Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier of all the world. 

Father, You love us each in such and intimate and personal way. Grant to each person the grace to deal with his or her doubts, struggles, issues, sins, and pain and to know the joy and peace that come with loving and trusting You. 

Father, on this first day of the New Year You have given us, we honor Mary, Your handmaiden who sought only to do what You asked of her; through the intercession of Mary, the Mother of Jesus and given by Him to be Mother of us all, and in the Name of Your beloved Son, Jesus, I ask that You hear and grant my prayer and that You lead me to pray always with my heart and soul and with my actions. Amen.

“Reflectful” may not be a real word, but it’s the combination of letters that best ex”presses how I feel this early morning of last day of 2018.

“Respectful” would mean “full of respect,” right? So “reflectful” might suggest being full of reflect(ion). OK, I admit that’s a stretch. But here I am…and by now you might have gathered that I sat down to this screen without a clue as to what I would write about today. I considered dragging out one of my reflections from last winter/spring, but then I realized I felt “reflectful,” so here goes.

Looking back, the year seems to have got behind me before I really even knew it was coming. There is a risk, here, of feeling regretful, of thinking about the year gone by as something that got away before I got the good out of it.

Not so! I think my sense that the year went by so quickly comes from having, for the most part, truly lived in the moment and from having focused more and more on being where God wants me, doing what He asks me to do in service to Him and to the people in my life. Rather than being focused on the passage of time, or being focused on the anticipation of future stuff, I was focused on right where I was…at least, most of the time.

Living in the [spiritual] moment gets one outside oneself. And I mean that quite literally. Living in this way leads away from self-centeredness and all of the pride, impatience, and annoyance that go with it, and toward a way of spending time that relies far less on what I want or expect and far more on what God wants and expects.

I really love how this works. It’s a grace thing. One day from this past year stands out especially vividly as an example. I got up on a Monday morning, enjoying the thought that I had a whole unscheduled day ahead of me and making plans for what I would do. My first stop was at 6:30 a.m. Mass, where I offered my gloriously unscheduled day to God and asked Him to show me how I could serve Him.

Sometimes prayers are answered with incredible swiftness. Before I left the chapel, I had text messages asking me to take care of not just one, not two, but all three of the little ones in my nearby family. I don’t remember exactly why, but Plan A for daycare for all 3 obviously had fallen through, and I’m Plan B.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when my initial response would have been along the lines of “Oh, great. Just when I had a nice quiet day planned. Shoot! Well, I guess I can make the best of it….” I’d have said “Sure,” and I’d have made it work, but I might have been less patient and caring than one would expect of the best Grannie in the world. Even if I didn’t express it outwardly, I’d have kind of resented the disruption in my plans.

But that morning, my response was much different. I remember looking at the messages and thinking, “Oh! So that’s what You have in mind for me today!” I responded immediately with an affirmative and some heart and smile emojis for good measure, and started thinking about the fun and hugs that were in store for me. Rather than praying for patience, I found myself simply asking to be the best Grannie to those little ones so that they would have a great day.

And this kind of response to what comes into my path in life has become more and more common over the past year. When I think about the year in retrospect, in my “reflectful” state of mind, what stands out to me is that over these days and weeks and months, I have stepped more and more out of my self. I’ve begun to be less concerned about what I think I want and more concerned about where God might lead me.

I’m finding this to be an incredibly liberating and energizing way to live my days. When I’m indulging a self-centered state of mind, I’m constantly anxious and worried about whether events and people and things are going to line up so that my plans can be carried out. But here’s the thing! If I’m pushy enough and vocal enough, I can get everything to line up so that my plans work. And when it’s done, I’m left with — at best — an incredibly blah sense of “So what?” and at worst, increased anxiety and even guilt, because I realize, when I’m honest with myself, that I’ve probably accomplished it at the expense of the comfort of the other people involved.

When I take myself and my plans out of the equation, and start looking outside of me to what’s good for the people around me, it all changes. Why should that me? And yet it does — pleasantly and repeatedly. I get to turn the “So what?” back in the right direction.

So what if we aren’t going to arrive at our destination 5-10 minutes early? I’m with people I love, and they deserve not to feel rushed just because I have this little compulsion about being early.

So what if I’m in a noisy, crowded place? Is there a way to set aside how I let it make me feel, and instead look for ways to have fun and to see Jesus in those around me — and for ways to let them see Him in me?

So what if the day isn’t going to go just as I planned it? Whose day is it, after all?

And it’s the answer to that last question that brings me back to the source of this reflectful state of mind, today, on the last day of 2018: Whose day is it, after all?

God created it. God gave it to me and to everyone around me. God gave this day to the world. It’s God’s day, and by grace I am living it with His blessing as His beloved child.

Dear Father God, thank You for this day. You’ve created it and given it to me to live in, and I ask humbly for Your grace to live it in a way that honors You and shows my love for You. Please show Yourself to me in everyone I meet, and use me, Lord. Use me to show Yourself to everyone I meet. And I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself, because when I try to deal with the future I get trapped in that web of self-centeredness; but please, Father, give me the grace to wake up each morning with my first thoughts centered on gratitude for Your gifts and on how I can better serve You in that day and in the events and people You put before me. You loved me into being; You loved me into redemption; and You daily love me into greater holiness. Grant me grace to live always in that love. Amen.

We have a love/hate relationship with New Year’s resolutions.

What’s not to love about the idea of a fresh start? The first day of the first month of a brand-new year: What a great time to put all of the big and small failures of the past behind us and begin all over again, heading into a future full of opportunities and free of the pain of regret!

What we hate, even though we may not really know it when we are standing on the threshold of a new year, is the deep disappointment that accompanies the first slip. What we hate, even if we are somehow sort of expecting it, is the creeping malaise that comes with forgetting what we even promised ourselves when we were on the cusp of that new beginning.

Personally, I also hate the idea that this year, this time, someone — maybe even me, aha!!! — has come up with the magic bullet that’s going to kill all that disappointment. One article says, “Don’t make resolutions, make affirmations!” Another says, “Treat every day like New Year’s Day!” Yet another trumpets the benefits of just being good to yourself, and so it goes, on and on.

The prospect of a new year, a fresh start, is exciting and enticing and wonderful. It’s also temporary, and it’s kind of a poor substitute for the renewal we are really looking for.

No magic bullets here. The way we look at the New Year is, I think, a symptom of the deeper need we have. Call it the need for redemption, the quest for salvation, the God-shaped hole in our souls; call it what you will, making and breaking a bunch of resolutions is not going to fill it.

Over the years, I’ve covered the spectrum of all the ways to celebrate the New Year on the calendar. I’ve partied the new year in, sometimes so boisterously that the hangover didn’t hit until January 2. I’ve slept it in, trying, in a state of depression, to ignore the fact that life was going on around me. I’ve celebrated it sober, drunk, with friends, with family, alone, and not at all — not necessarily in that order.

And in more recent years, I’ve discovered a way that makes a lot more sense, and keeps me pointed in a direction that lets me move forward into the New Year with a sense of peace.

The foundation of this celebration, for me, is rooted in faith — and it’s all the more significant for me since it was not always so.

Here’s the thing. I don’t need to redeem myself, and if I need a fresh start, I always have one before me.

The redeeming has already been done. Did we not just celebrate the birth of Jesus, Who came as a tiny child and grew to become the promised Messiah? Do we not yet realize that as our Messiah, His death and resurrection provided us with redemption once and for all? Do we still not understand that in God’s constant mercy and willingness to forgive, we have a fresh start in front of us every time we turn to Him?

Since my return some seven years ago to a life centered in faith, about which I’ve written before, I’ve enjoyed a growing sense of peace in celebrating the New Year. Instead of looking for the right New Year’s Eve party, I look for the Mass schedule at my parish church. Whether I go to the vigil Mass on December 31 or the morning Mass on January 1, I am enraptured by the focus on, and celebration of, the Holy Family. And in this quiet, joyful celebration, I am led into a new year of seeking, as did Mary and Joseph in bringing Jesus into the world and raising Him here so that He could redeem us, a new year of seeking to serve God in the people around me — my own family and all those I encounter.

The idea of a new beginning marked by all kinds of resolutions is seductive, in its way — we’ve been through it enough times to know how it’s going to end. I know how my new path is going to end, too, and can I be honest? I like it much better.

Instead of something big and shiny and new — and, by the way, unsustainable! — I get joy from doing what I have already been doing for the past year and what I hope to do all through this coming year. Nothing new here, but everything is new every day.

The gifts of the Holy Spirit include wonder and awe — words I prefer to “fear of the Lord,” because that phrase is so easily misunderstood. And I hope always to enjoy some sense of wonder and awe as I ponder and discover and rediscover how God works in our world and in our lives.

If there is a single experience for which I hope I never lose the sense of wonder and awe, it is the Consecration during Mass — that moment in which ordinary bread and ordinary wine become, in their very substance, the Body and Blood of Jesus. I think it was in learning about this profound mystery of faith that I first experienced some understanding of how faith works — that in the face of very complicated, complex events and questions, faith is so very simple. Faith just believes. Faith doesn’t look for elaborate explanations and expositions. Faith doesn’t dig for fancy answers.

Faith believes.

Like all moments of great significance that are repeated often throughout our days, however, that wonderful moment of Consecration can become a routine. The eyes and ears and body are so vulnerable to distractions. Those amazing words and actions happen before us, and before we know it we’re on our feet to go and receive Him. And we’ve barely been aware of the greatest of miracles that has just taken place — yes, again! — right in front of us.

I don’t have a magic bullet for keeping the entire ritual of the Mass, and Consecration in particular, fresh and exciting every time. But sometimes if I can just keep my focus on what is really happening, and be still and listen, I am led into reflection that brings deeper meaning to this wonderful and awesome Moment when Jesus makes Himself present among us.

A few weeks back, I was at a weekday Mass. I go to an early morning Mass, and the chapel is usually very quiet (unless my 2-year-old granddaughter comes along and chooses this time to sing her “hallelulahs”). On this particular day, as that Moment approached and the priest began saying the sacred words of Consecration, I imagined myself as one of the disciples at table with Jesus at the Last Supper. As I put myself in the scene, I remembered that for the disciples, it didn’t start out as “the Last Supper.” It was simply their Passover meal and celebration, with all the rituals and ceremonies that they expected in a traditional Seder.

It occurred to me to wonder at what point those disciples — the Twelve who were closest to Him and who joined Him for this meal — began to realize that something quite different from the traditional Passover meal was taking shape.

Certainly, when Jesus departed from the usual rituals and gave them His Body and Blood to eat and drink (Matt. 26:26-28), I would have had more questions than answers. I found myself in the moment, receiving what looked like bread and wine from His hands, and thinking back to what he had said earlier — that unless we ate His flesh and drank His blood we would not have life within us! Now in this moment, He is making that statement a stark reality — just when the world outside this upper room is getting very, very frightening.

In the midst of all the mystery of the connection between His earlier words and His actions during this meal, I might have found myself — even as I consumed the Bread and Wine He gave me — filing these strange ideas away in my head, letting them mull about in my mind even as the terrifying, and then awesome, events of the next few days unfolded.

What did He mean? “Do this in memory of me…” How are we supposed to have His body and His blood? He’s dying on a cross, the worst and most humiliating of death sentences for a criminal. Does any of what happened mean anything?

What are we supposed to do? I imagine myself asking that question again and again as I protect myself (I think) from the crowds and from falling victim to the same fate as my Teacher is suffering.

And once the terror is past and the first day of the week dawns, I imagine how the Twelve and those close to them began to reshape those questions once they knew that Jesus had risen from the dead.

Now He is alive once more. He appears here, shows up there — and we recognize Him “in the breaking of the bread.” The imagery of Jesus, cooking breakfast for the Twelve on the shore after they had gone — deeply confused about events and still missing the biggest message of Jesus’ resurrection — back to their fishing boats, grabs my mind and won’t let go. I imagine being in that group, seeing Him but not quite recognizing Him (oh, the grip of doubt!) — and then He begins to break off pieces of bread and hand them to us, and the connection is instant and visceral and undeniable.

Imagine being on the road to Emmaus with those two disciples, feeling the stirring of truth within as our new companion teaches us, and then realizing in the very moment of breaking bread that it really is Jesus Who was walking and talking with us….

But no one really knew what to do with all of it just yet. All they had at this point was a collection of experiences and moments and glimmerings of recognition; possibly there were moments of clarity when the connections would stand out, albeit briefly, and then a moment later be beyond their grasp. And yet, during these weeks following the amazing discovery that Jesus was once more alive, during all the times that He appeared to them and spoke with them and continued to promise His promises to them, in all that time there is no real understanding of what is next. I imagine myself in that group, thinking, “OK, fine. This is pretty good. We still see Jesus and He still teaches us. We can go on like this. It’s really pretty good.”

But Jesus, when we see Him, is talking about leaving again. And so there is a stirring of doubt and fear in our hearts, because we don’t really know how any of this works without Him, and we don’t have a very solid connection between what He said about His Body and Blood before that awful last night of His life, and what He said and did during the Passover Meal that turned into something else, and the way He died, and what it means that He came back from the dead.

And then, one day, just when we were getting used to this new way of living, He leaves. It’s a glorious leaving, a powerful and amazing experience, but to our minds it is, nonetheless, a leaving. We saw Jesus ascend to heaven, and without Him showing up every now and then to remind us of His teaching, we feel pretty frightened and we don’t understand how we are supposed to do anything He taught us.

So, in this new level of fear and doubt, we go into hiding. We are sure — at least we think we are sure — that Jesus is going to keep His promises, but we have no clear idea as to how He is going to do that.

And then: Pentecost! “He does not ration his gift of the Spirit” (John 3:34). I kneel in wonder at the Consecration during Mass, some 2,000 years later, because Jesus sent the Paraclete that He had promised — the Holy Spirit Who is the love of the Father and the Son, unstoppable and untamable and incredibly powerful — and in that moment of flames resting on the heads of the Twelve, all the things that they could not think through or reason out or even conceive of, all those things become crystal clear.

They know who they are.

They know Who has called them and for what.

They know what those words at the Last Supper mean, and they know what to do.

And there it is: the depth of wonder and awe at the love of a God who cares so much for His redeemed people that He keeps coming back to them. He pursues them until they catch Him, and then He stays with them so long as they open their hearts.

Sometimes I really don’t like the way I behave.

Sometimes I let the fact that I’m being exposed to things that annoy me or trigger anxiety control how I react and behave. I always regret it. I feel it coming on, and part of me knows that I need to take a deep breath and make a conscious decision about how I’m going to be. And sometimes I let myself go down the wrong path.

It’s hard to say what bothers me most — noise, or being among a crowd of people, or the confusion of two or three voices competing for attention, or feeling like I need to rush to get something done or to be somewhere. It’s definitely the case that a combination of two or more of these things will set my teeth on edge. I’ll begin to feel impatient and edgy, tense and annoyed, and if I’m not careful I’ll be expressing those feelings in a most unpleasant way.

I know this, and I’ve made a specific decision in my life that I cannot and will not avoid those situations but rather will learn and decide how to handle them so that neither I nor the people around me suffer as a result.

Yesterday, I most willingly went on an outing with several children to one of those indoor play centers where the kids can climb and bounce and generally have a lot of fun.

It was noisy.

There were a lot of people.

To say that there were many competing voices right in my immediate circle is an understatement.

And I allowed myself to get grouchy and impatient. The little boys who were in my charge heard my impatient words and felt my annoyance. I snapped at them more than once, I groused loudly about the shoes that were hard to put on, I actually yelled about the seat belts in my new car that weren’t going easily into the proper slots on the top of the seats…I may not have been as unpleasant as I remember, but there is no doubt in my mind that everyone around me felt it.

I managed to spread hugs and love on everyone before the day was over, and I apologized for my rudeness. When I said my evening prayers, I asked God’s forgiveness for my selfish behavior, and I resolved with His grace to do better. When I went to Mass this morning, I again asked for forgiveness and grace, and then, because I’m finally learning to do this, I stopped and just listened.

I was a little surprised by what I heard. The thoughts that began to form were these: You are really beating yourself up over this, and you’ve already been forgiven. You can stop worrying about yesterday and think about how you are going to be today and tomorrow.  This continuing to pick at the little sore spot that yesterday’s lapse left is not coming from God, and it’s not going to make anything better. Maybe it will help to stop dwelling so much on the sin — you already know how to sin! — and start dwelling on the solution.

Thank You, Holy Spirit! As my evening readings yesterday proclaimed, “He does not ration his gift of the Spirit” (John 3:34).

I already know that when I allow myself to get in that unpleasant state of mind, it is rooted in selfishness. At the most basic level, I’m not getting my way, and I don’t like it. Instead of peace and quiet I’m experiencing noise and confusion, and I don’t like it. Instead of lots of space around me I’m existing among a crowd of people, and I don’t like it. Instead of a single conversation, I am trying to sort out three or four or more voices, and I don’t like it. Instead of being in complete control of my time and surroundings, I’m at the mercy of the situation, and I don’t  like it. I feel rushed only because I think I need to get out of this situation and because I feel out of control, when the reality is there’s no need to hurry at all.

And as I continued to let the “still, small voice” speak within me, I began to get some clarity.  “Those who choose other gods increase their sorrows” (Ps. 16). I think that by first allowing myself to get in such a state of mind, then indulging it instead of controlling it, and finally dwelling on it and its effects instead of fixing the problem, I risk making — and choosing — a little god out of the self-centeredness that the whole cycle involves. And that just gives the whole cycle new life while making me feel worse and worse.

Fortunately for me, the people around me are almost as forgiving as my God is. (Sometimes, when I’ve apologized for my grouchiness, I’ve learned that they hadn’t even noticed it. Talk about an ego slump!)

What I have here is yet one more chance to be better, to be a person who listens to the “still, small voice” rather than choosing “other gods.” The voice I need to listen to is always there amid all the other competing voices. When I center myself on that voice that speaks in the quiet part of my soul, and when I allow myself to put the false god of self to one side, then all the rest is easy to handle. Then I am the person God made me to be.

My prayer reminder for the 2:00 p.m. hour each day chimes with “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” Can I please have grace to remember that in each moment of my day, I am where God has placed me, and I can simply turn to Him and know that it’s not about me and my silly comfort levels — that it’s about Him, present in all the people and voices around me, and I just need to recognize Him and lean into Him. There. That’s where I find peace in the loudest, most confusing, most crowded places in life.

Once, not so many years ago, I thought “the holidays” were forever marred, that I would never be able to enjoy “the season” as much because of the painful memories involved.

My beloved Tom, you see, was diagnosed with incurable, inoperable lung cancer the day after Christmas in 2003. What betrayal! After a happy Christmas day with family, we spent the entire next day in the emergency room, and what was supposed to be a lovely relaxing week off work became a maelstrom of appointments and desperate conversations and adjustment and, yes, some prayer as we sought a better outcome than was promised us.

And we drifted through radiation treatment and eight years of remission and fairly normal life punctuated by scans and updates. And then right at the start of “the holiday season” in 2011, we learned the remission was over and the cancer was once more in charge. Tom spend the entire time, from December 22 until January 4, in the hospital. And six months later, on July 1, he died.

Although those six months really saw the beginning of a new journey of faith for me, I still thought “the holidays” were never going to be really good again.

I was wrong.

I was wrong, because I persisted in seeing that time of year as somehow separate from the rest, rather than part of the seamless whole that is God’s love for us.

I was wrong, because I persisted in thinking of “the holidays” and “the season” instead of the constancy and depth and breadth of God’s love for us which is with us all the time.

I was wrong, because I had linked my experience of difficult times and tragic events to a time of year, and I had allowed myself to focus there instead of on the wholeness of God’s plan for us.

What I’ve learned: The joy of celebrating God’s love for and pursuit of His human creatures is not confined to a season or to a holiday. And neither is the sadness and grief that come with missing someone I loved who is no longer here.

It’s all part of the magnificent integrity of human existence as a child of God.

It feels like this faith journey has accelerated over the past year or so, with wonderful new insights presenting themselves. And as a result, my feelings about this time of year have transformed into a new kind of peaceful, joyful response to God’s love.

I find myself thinking not so much of “the holidays” or “the season” but simply of what we celebrate….The coming of Jesus in human form, His Advent into the world the Father called into being by His Word, the beginning of salvation for His sinful people.

This year, I literally could not wait to decorate the house for Christmas, and what I wanted was light — hundreds of tiny sparkling lights, on Christmas trees, on the porch, in the trees out front, in the windows, on the walls. And even while I was indulging my sudden passion for lights, I wondered — What is going on? I was responding to this desire for light without fully understanding it.

It was while I was twining a string of lights through the branches of a living Norfolk Island pine I had found that the light began to dawn in a vivid and real sense.

In the cycle of the Church year, we prepare to celebrate the advent of Christ, Light of the World — and what better way to do so than with lots and lots of light!

So I happily hung and strung my hundreds of tiny lights and put my candles in all the windows (this house has 17 windows!) and let the joy and peace flow through me.

Because it’s not just “the holidays.” It’s not merely “the season.” It’s one part of the continuing celebration, throughout the year, of God’s plan of salvation for His people.

Because Advent leads to Christmas, and you know what? Even if the rest of the world turns off the Christmas lights after tonight, Christmas really keeps going for quite awhile, and my lights are staying on. And after Christmas truly passes, after we reflect on the way Mary and Joseph became a family with Jesus and how Jesus grew, after we watch the shepherds and the Magi come and go, then we will follow the salvation story into the penitential time of Lent, anticipating and then celebrating the ultimate act of redemption and triumph with Holy Week and Easter. And then we’ll live out the weeks of God’s word and the festival moments of His Mother and His saints until the next cycle begins in Advent.

This journey has taken some time to bring me to this point, and I have no doubt that there are other destinations I’m meant to reach. I’m grateful for all the healing that has come my way as the seasons have come and gone, and my prayer and my hope is that the sense of wonder and awe that comes with this time of year will stay with me as the seasons come and go. And I wish that same sense of wonder and awe at God’s workings in our lives to all who may come across these words.

Merry Christmas!