I gently tapped the bowl with my finger. It was plastic, as I had expected, instead of glass. The time had come for the grandkids to go through what had belonged to our grandparents and request our favorite things. There were some things that I wanted, but not very many. In my love for my grandparents, I looked at the material items and realized part of the sacrifices they willing endured for their family.
My grandparents grew up during the Depression. They understood not having much and carried that mentality into the rest of their lives. My grandpa said that his family never went hungry, but then he also told my dad, without complaint, that there were times when they ate potatoes for every meal of the day.
Some people lived through the Depression and then spent much of their lives trying to live in luxury so as to make up for their time of poverty. My grandparents embraced the lifestyle of simplicity that was taught to them through the difficulties of the 1930s followed by the war of the 1940s. By the time they both died (my grandma in 2004 and my grandpa in 2013), they had stored up for themselves what probably seemed like amazing wealth to the 1930s versions of themselves.
Yet they did not live as though they were wealthy. My grandparents were generous with us but did not seek to spoil us. The overall impression was that family, not money, would be the source of happiness. As I got older, the number of family functions seemed only to increase. We would gather for a long weekend at a lake, spend a weekend in a hotel in town as a family, and once a group of us took a trip to Ireland and Scotland for a couple weeks.
The simplicity of their lifestyle is something that is good for me to remember. They turned off lights, used no air conditioning, ate simply, and did without many luxuries. Without great wealth to begin with, they gave birth to ten children and ushered nine of them into adulthood. My grandma would replace the elastic in her pants when it gave out and my grandpa would wear the same overalls for decades. Their happiness did not rest in their bank accounts but in the family they were raising. And if family is an indicator of wealth, they were abundantly wealthy. Nine children lived to adulthood and between 30-40 grandchildren were born as a result of that.
This week my dad and his siblings are selling my grandparent's land. I'm sure that it is a difficult experience, something that seems to finalize things that one wants to pretend didn't happen. While my grandparents are no longer here on earth, their memory remains rooted in our hearts. Yet far from wish they could remain here with us forever, I pray they are in Heaven. In Heaven, there is no need to conserve money or live simply. Heaven is an overflow of abundance, a rich banquet for all to join in, lavish goodness poured into the lap of each person there. That is what I desire for them. Not money or great material wealth, but the richness of belonging entirely to the family of God, to the Body of Christ.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Mt. 5:3)
Monday, September 29, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Gratitude for Community
At different times I find myself missing college. While it was stressful and filled with numerous papers, I miss the unique setting that is found in living in the dorm and sharing my daily life with many others. The fact that a perpetual adoration chapel was only a short walk away was also a major benefit. Sometimes I was overwhelmed by the constant stream of people around campus, prohibiting any chance of being alone and filling my melancholic soul with stillness and silence. Despite that, I found it invigorating to be surrounded by young people my age who desired to zealously live out the faith. Of course they failed, but it was to my never-ending joy to be able to enter into deep theological discussions at the drop of the hat.
Once experiences the beauty of such an environment, everything else seems to not compare. Now I don't live in a place that is teeming with young Catholics. I have a real job and I have to concern myself with money. The goal now, as opposed to the liberal spending of college, is to earn more than I spend. College was a steady stream of cash poured from my pockets and from the pockets of a couple banks.
Yet every now and then I am able to recognize the beauty of the present moment. I remember that I live with three young women that are on fire for the Lord. That we do engage in deep conversations, that we are sharing our lives together, and that we can challenge each other to delve deeper into our faith. Last night we had a women's prayer group meeting at my house and I was filled again with a sense of gratitude. Women from different jobs, places, backgrounds, and lives came together to be rooted in prayer. At one point I was concerned that our conversation would be offensive to some of the new ladies but I was even more encouraged to find out they weren't. We could talk about praying outside Planned Parenthood, contraception, ObamaCare, medical ethics, Catholic hospitals, and much more without any tension or conflict. We seemed to be in one accord.
I thanked the Lord that I didn't live on my own but with women I can grow with. I am not alone in my faith or without Catholic friends, but rather the Lord is increasing and strengthening these friendships. My community may be small, but it is sufficient for me. The Lord provides. He knows what I need and He is supplying. Perhaps not in the abundance that I dream of or desire, but in the amount that is perfect, necessary, and manageable.
Once experiences the beauty of such an environment, everything else seems to not compare. Now I don't live in a place that is teeming with young Catholics. I have a real job and I have to concern myself with money. The goal now, as opposed to the liberal spending of college, is to earn more than I spend. College was a steady stream of cash poured from my pockets and from the pockets of a couple banks.
Yet every now and then I am able to recognize the beauty of the present moment. I remember that I live with three young women that are on fire for the Lord. That we do engage in deep conversations, that we are sharing our lives together, and that we can challenge each other to delve deeper into our faith. Last night we had a women's prayer group meeting at my house and I was filled again with a sense of gratitude. Women from different jobs, places, backgrounds, and lives came together to be rooted in prayer. At one point I was concerned that our conversation would be offensive to some of the new ladies but I was even more encouraged to find out they weren't. We could talk about praying outside Planned Parenthood, contraception, ObamaCare, medical ethics, Catholic hospitals, and much more without any tension or conflict. We seemed to be in one accord.
I thanked the Lord that I didn't live on my own but with women I can grow with. I am not alone in my faith or without Catholic friends, but rather the Lord is increasing and strengthening these friendships. My community may be small, but it is sufficient for me. The Lord provides. He knows what I need and He is supplying. Perhaps not in the abundance that I dream of or desire, but in the amount that is perfect, necessary, and manageable.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Fr. Javier
He was easily my favorite priest that I met along the Camino. The priest in Santo Domingo was excellent but I never spoke to him. Fr. Javier, however, was the priest I actually spent time with and I grew in admiration for him.
The first conversation we had with him was brief but it struck my heart.
"Father?" one of my traveling companions called out to him, as he hurried from the albergue to the monastery.
"Hija?"
"English?"
"Yes," he said with a smile.
The girls I was with missed his first reply. They simply thought he said, "Yeah?" Instead, he said, "Daughter." After seeing us for a mere two seconds he was calling us by our deepest identity and also responding as our father.
We asked about Mass and he said there would be Mass instead of evening prayer. We were so excited because this was a change from his ordinary schedule due to the other monk being away. At Mass he welcomed us in Spanish and English. He won our hearts when he told people taking pictures after Mass that it was not an appropriate time for that because people were praying. Typically the tourist-pilgrims are allowed to wander the churches like museums, taking pictures and chatting as they take a self-guided tour. It was refreshing to have our post-communion prayer time respected. The people left fairly quickly since they couldn't photograph the church.
Thankful to finally be in a church that didn't usher us out within five minutes of the final blessing, we prayed for quite a while. During this time, Fr. Javier came back and asked for one of us to do the reading for night prayer. He chose my sister to do it, even though she was resistant. With a quick smile and a tender firmness, he told her what she was to do and that she would sit by him during the prayer. It felt like we had finally found a little resting place with a lovely father to look out for us. His simple presence around the chapel, preparing for the next liturgy, was comforting.
Outside the church was a sign that told pilgrims about the different liturgies offered at the monastery church. At the end of that was a little blurb about pilgrims being able to spend a few days in the pilgrim house run by the monastery. During our prayer time in the church I turned this idea over and over in my mind. My heart was longing to stay in this place for much longer than one night. I wanted to live there or at least stay another day. We had budgeted some extra time into a schedule in case of injury. I had always slightly envied the people who had such an open schedule that they would stay for a couple days at different places just because they felt like it. Our schedule wasn't tight but we had to keep moving. The final words written in my journal during that prayer time were, "Do You want us to stay another day?" I wrote those words with hope but also knew that it might not be realistic.
A few minutes before we headed over to the church for night prayer, I broached the subject with my traveling companions. The response was immediate and positive. We decided we would ask Fr. Javier after night prayer to see if it was possible. I entrusted it to Our Lady's hands. If she wanted us to stay there, then she would make it possible. If not, then we would move on.
After night prayer we were nervous. Fr. Javier was puttering around the church, preparing to lock up. We went outside, planning to catch him on his way out. He came out and thanked my sister for reading before turning to go to the monastery. One of my friends called him back saying that we had a question. Could we stay there for a night? He thought it might be possible but would need to check with the hospitalero. There was another catch, though. If we stayed, it was for a minimum of two nights. For a moment I thought it wouldn't be feasible. The three of us were typically very slow to decide anything and I thought we might need to ask Father for a moment to discuss our options.
"You would be here for the Corpus Christi procession..."
We all began to nod. I didn't need to discuss it, my heart was begging me to listen and remain in this peaceful place with this lovely priest. He smiled and went to go check on the possibility.
He returned within a couple minutes and broke the news to us.
"I'm sorry. I'm afraid it is going to be....possible!" We were overjoyed and exclaimed, "Father!" for leading us to believe we couldn't stay. He introduced us to the hospitalero and instructed us to bring our things with us to morning prayer the next day and we would be able to move in.
That night we were delirious at the thought of not walking the next day. It wasn't necessary to fall asleep as quickly as possible and for a little while I thought I would be too excited to sleep. The only thing that was less than desirable was that all of our friends would continue on their way. With two rest days in Rabanal del Camino, it was quite possible that we would never catch up with them or see them again. There was one lady that had been with us on and off from the very beginning and we were loathe to part ways. Yet I was so excited for the retreat and rest days we were embarking on. It felt like the Lord was simply showering us with gifts, perfectly designed for the desires of our hearts.
The next morning we woke up and had breakfast at the albergue. The hospitaleros told us to come back the next day for tea if we wanted. Then we wished our friends farewell and raced to the church for morning prayer. It was peaceful and calming to enter the simple church. Over the next two days we would transition from sitting in the pews to taking our place in the monk choir at the front of the church. Finally, we were with people who, for the most part, were walking the Camino as a way to experience God.
Second breakfast took place at the pilgrim house before a tour of the place. It was simple but beautiful. A small library, an enclosed garden, a conference room with a beautiful piano, a prayer room, and a church across the road open the entire day. I reveled in the simple joy of praying and reading in the garden that morning. For lunch we were invited to eat at the monastery. Fr. Javier, an extraordinary cook, made the meal and served it in the silence of the monastery refectory. A brief reading would take place and then Fr. Javier would knock on the table to indicate we could begin to pour our drinks, water and wine. The first meal I spent watching everyone else to see that I was supposed to do and feeling like a foolish American without any delicate table manners. The meal was served in courses and I attempted to keep pace with everyone else so as to not hold them up.
While we ate, classical music would be playing in the background. Otherwise, we ate in silence. Some were exchanging glances of amusement. Fr. Javier would wink and smile at us. But most of the time I would just ponder the reading or take in the swells of the music or turn my eyes to my interior. The first meal was an interesting combination of peace and anxiety, hoping I wasn't messing up what seemed to be known etiquette.
The afternoons we would have to our own devices and while it wasn't required or asked of us, the three of us decided we would have a silent retreat of sorts. The first day we spent away from each other. Despite my love for both of them, it had been a long time since we were able to go off by ourselves for most of a day. It was interesting that while much of my time walking was spent in prayer and silence, my heart was still longing for silence and solitude.
Mass took place in the evening and then we would go to the pilgrim house for supper. Supper was never as elaborate as lunch, but it was always sufficient. After supper we would have only a little time before we were off to night prayer. I began to feel something akin to what the disciples might have felt. I was one of the few (only six are permitted at a time) to stay in the pilgrim house. I had been to night prayer before and knew the schedule. I had the privilege of dining with Fr. Javier, of having a key to the pilgrim house door, of receiving the smiles and attentions of those in charge of the pilgrim house. I loved being at once a visitor and yet more of a resident of that town than nearly anyone else who was wandering through.
The days passed too quickly but they were beautiful. We followed Fr. Javier and Jesus around the town during a Corpus Christi procession. Later that afternoon, as the warm rain poured down through the open garden roof, we listened with delight to Fr. Javier play the piano. We learned that he had studied classical piano in school and that beauty is what drew him to the Benedictines. At supper that night we heard his brief vocation story. He said the short story was that he is a monk because Jesus wants him to be. That every other reason must boil down to that all important reason. Nothing else matters and nothing else is a good enough reason if Jesus does not want it. After supper we all took a stroll around the town, a merry band of wanderers pulled from around the globe.
As we walked a French lady joined us. She didn't say much but she seemed to just want to be in our presence. I didn't blame her. I was basking in the joy of following Fr. Javier, of strolling on a day that didn't find me walking fifteen miles. The next morning we didn't want to leave. We delayed, perhaps foolishly, for as long as we could. Mass was finally in the morning and we stayed for that and breakfast following. It turned into a long day of walking, but we wanted to maximize our time with Fr. Javier, our time in Rabanal, and our time in the peaceful oasis we had stumbled upon.
Fr. Javier was willing to pose for a picture with a few of us. He had asked us earlier that day if we knew the story behind the icon in the refectory. It was of the three angels that came to Abraham, a representation of the Holy Trinity. He talked briefly about how three strangers came to Abraham but they were actually angels. Three of them. And he looked at us, telling us that we were angels that had arrived there. Of course, theologically I was certain we weren't, but I was tickled by his compliment.
A quick hug, a couple lingering glances thrown at the monastery and church, and we were off. That whole day I thought of Rabanal. When it came close to two o'clock, I thought of how the little group would be gathering in the refectory for one of Fr. Javier's delicious meals. That evening I thought of night prayer being prayed in the church, hearing Fr. Javier's lovely voice sing the prayer in Latin and Spanish.
My heart longed for Rabanal as we continued our Camino. It began the interesting fact that when people would ask if I had a favorite place on the Camino, I would quickly reply Rabanal, and then feel funny that my favorite place of my walking pilgrimage was a place I didn't have to walk much. It was a little like the transfiguration. It was good that the Lord called us there but we were loathe to leave. I wanted to pitch my tent in Rabanal and remain there for the next few weeks, soaking up the peace of the town, becoming Fr. Javier's friend, living a simple life in the pilgrim house.
Rabanal reignited my desire for Heaven. I was longing for a place of infinite peace and contentedness but also a place that wouldn't require me to leave. I wanted to be near the priest who was quick to smile and tease, but devout in prayer and reverence. Yet even more so I wanted to be infinitely closer to the High Priest who understands me entirely and loves me fiercely. If the Camino is life and Santiago is Heaven, then Rabanal was a vision along that way that pushed me onward in body and spirit.
Fr. Javier became the priest who redeemed, in my mind, the fate of the Spanish prelate. He welcomed, with that characteristic Benedictine hospitality, all of us into the pilgrim house and provided all we needed. The entire time there was provided on donation basis but I felt the money I left to be insufficient. I vowed to pray for him along the Way and Fr. Javier promised to do the same for me. What a great influence he had on my Camino all as a result of us stumbling upon that town, deciding to stay, and asking to stay longer. The Lord certainly provided. Greedy as I am, I hope to someday return there. Perhaps the Lord will provide that, too.
The first conversation we had with him was brief but it struck my heart.
"Father?" one of my traveling companions called out to him, as he hurried from the albergue to the monastery.
"Hija?"
"English?"
"Yes," he said with a smile.
The girls I was with missed his first reply. They simply thought he said, "Yeah?" Instead, he said, "Daughter." After seeing us for a mere two seconds he was calling us by our deepest identity and also responding as our father.
We asked about Mass and he said there would be Mass instead of evening prayer. We were so excited because this was a change from his ordinary schedule due to the other monk being away. At Mass he welcomed us in Spanish and English. He won our hearts when he told people taking pictures after Mass that it was not an appropriate time for that because people were praying. Typically the tourist-pilgrims are allowed to wander the churches like museums, taking pictures and chatting as they take a self-guided tour. It was refreshing to have our post-communion prayer time respected. The people left fairly quickly since they couldn't photograph the church.
Thankful to finally be in a church that didn't usher us out within five minutes of the final blessing, we prayed for quite a while. During this time, Fr. Javier came back and asked for one of us to do the reading for night prayer. He chose my sister to do it, even though she was resistant. With a quick smile and a tender firmness, he told her what she was to do and that she would sit by him during the prayer. It felt like we had finally found a little resting place with a lovely father to look out for us. His simple presence around the chapel, preparing for the next liturgy, was comforting.
Outside the church was a sign that told pilgrims about the different liturgies offered at the monastery church. At the end of that was a little blurb about pilgrims being able to spend a few days in the pilgrim house run by the monastery. During our prayer time in the church I turned this idea over and over in my mind. My heart was longing to stay in this place for much longer than one night. I wanted to live there or at least stay another day. We had budgeted some extra time into a schedule in case of injury. I had always slightly envied the people who had such an open schedule that they would stay for a couple days at different places just because they felt like it. Our schedule wasn't tight but we had to keep moving. The final words written in my journal during that prayer time were, "Do You want us to stay another day?" I wrote those words with hope but also knew that it might not be realistic.
A few minutes before we headed over to the church for night prayer, I broached the subject with my traveling companions. The response was immediate and positive. We decided we would ask Fr. Javier after night prayer to see if it was possible. I entrusted it to Our Lady's hands. If she wanted us to stay there, then she would make it possible. If not, then we would move on.
After night prayer we were nervous. Fr. Javier was puttering around the church, preparing to lock up. We went outside, planning to catch him on his way out. He came out and thanked my sister for reading before turning to go to the monastery. One of my friends called him back saying that we had a question. Could we stay there for a night? He thought it might be possible but would need to check with the hospitalero. There was another catch, though. If we stayed, it was for a minimum of two nights. For a moment I thought it wouldn't be feasible. The three of us were typically very slow to decide anything and I thought we might need to ask Father for a moment to discuss our options.
"You would be here for the Corpus Christi procession..."
We all began to nod. I didn't need to discuss it, my heart was begging me to listen and remain in this peaceful place with this lovely priest. He smiled and went to go check on the possibility.
He returned within a couple minutes and broke the news to us.
"I'm sorry. I'm afraid it is going to be....possible!" We were overjoyed and exclaimed, "Father!" for leading us to believe we couldn't stay. He introduced us to the hospitalero and instructed us to bring our things with us to morning prayer the next day and we would be able to move in.
That night we were delirious at the thought of not walking the next day. It wasn't necessary to fall asleep as quickly as possible and for a little while I thought I would be too excited to sleep. The only thing that was less than desirable was that all of our friends would continue on their way. With two rest days in Rabanal del Camino, it was quite possible that we would never catch up with them or see them again. There was one lady that had been with us on and off from the very beginning and we were loathe to part ways. Yet I was so excited for the retreat and rest days we were embarking on. It felt like the Lord was simply showering us with gifts, perfectly designed for the desires of our hearts.
The next morning we woke up and had breakfast at the albergue. The hospitaleros told us to come back the next day for tea if we wanted. Then we wished our friends farewell and raced to the church for morning prayer. It was peaceful and calming to enter the simple church. Over the next two days we would transition from sitting in the pews to taking our place in the monk choir at the front of the church. Finally, we were with people who, for the most part, were walking the Camino as a way to experience God.
Second breakfast took place at the pilgrim house before a tour of the place. It was simple but beautiful. A small library, an enclosed garden, a conference room with a beautiful piano, a prayer room, and a church across the road open the entire day. I reveled in the simple joy of praying and reading in the garden that morning. For lunch we were invited to eat at the monastery. Fr. Javier, an extraordinary cook, made the meal and served it in the silence of the monastery refectory. A brief reading would take place and then Fr. Javier would knock on the table to indicate we could begin to pour our drinks, water and wine. The first meal I spent watching everyone else to see that I was supposed to do and feeling like a foolish American without any delicate table manners. The meal was served in courses and I attempted to keep pace with everyone else so as to not hold them up.
While we ate, classical music would be playing in the background. Otherwise, we ate in silence. Some were exchanging glances of amusement. Fr. Javier would wink and smile at us. But most of the time I would just ponder the reading or take in the swells of the music or turn my eyes to my interior. The first meal was an interesting combination of peace and anxiety, hoping I wasn't messing up what seemed to be known etiquette.
The afternoons we would have to our own devices and while it wasn't required or asked of us, the three of us decided we would have a silent retreat of sorts. The first day we spent away from each other. Despite my love for both of them, it had been a long time since we were able to go off by ourselves for most of a day. It was interesting that while much of my time walking was spent in prayer and silence, my heart was still longing for silence and solitude.
Mass took place in the evening and then we would go to the pilgrim house for supper. Supper was never as elaborate as lunch, but it was always sufficient. After supper we would have only a little time before we were off to night prayer. I began to feel something akin to what the disciples might have felt. I was one of the few (only six are permitted at a time) to stay in the pilgrim house. I had been to night prayer before and knew the schedule. I had the privilege of dining with Fr. Javier, of having a key to the pilgrim house door, of receiving the smiles and attentions of those in charge of the pilgrim house. I loved being at once a visitor and yet more of a resident of that town than nearly anyone else who was wandering through.
The days passed too quickly but they were beautiful. We followed Fr. Javier and Jesus around the town during a Corpus Christi procession. Later that afternoon, as the warm rain poured down through the open garden roof, we listened with delight to Fr. Javier play the piano. We learned that he had studied classical piano in school and that beauty is what drew him to the Benedictines. At supper that night we heard his brief vocation story. He said the short story was that he is a monk because Jesus wants him to be. That every other reason must boil down to that all important reason. Nothing else matters and nothing else is a good enough reason if Jesus does not want it. After supper we all took a stroll around the town, a merry band of wanderers pulled from around the globe.
As we walked a French lady joined us. She didn't say much but she seemed to just want to be in our presence. I didn't blame her. I was basking in the joy of following Fr. Javier, of strolling on a day that didn't find me walking fifteen miles. The next morning we didn't want to leave. We delayed, perhaps foolishly, for as long as we could. Mass was finally in the morning and we stayed for that and breakfast following. It turned into a long day of walking, but we wanted to maximize our time with Fr. Javier, our time in Rabanal, and our time in the peaceful oasis we had stumbled upon.
Fr. Javier was willing to pose for a picture with a few of us. He had asked us earlier that day if we knew the story behind the icon in the refectory. It was of the three angels that came to Abraham, a representation of the Holy Trinity. He talked briefly about how three strangers came to Abraham but they were actually angels. Three of them. And he looked at us, telling us that we were angels that had arrived there. Of course, theologically I was certain we weren't, but I was tickled by his compliment.
A quick hug, a couple lingering glances thrown at the monastery and church, and we were off. That whole day I thought of Rabanal. When it came close to two o'clock, I thought of how the little group would be gathering in the refectory for one of Fr. Javier's delicious meals. That evening I thought of night prayer being prayed in the church, hearing Fr. Javier's lovely voice sing the prayer in Latin and Spanish.
My heart longed for Rabanal as we continued our Camino. It began the interesting fact that when people would ask if I had a favorite place on the Camino, I would quickly reply Rabanal, and then feel funny that my favorite place of my walking pilgrimage was a place I didn't have to walk much. It was a little like the transfiguration. It was good that the Lord called us there but we were loathe to leave. I wanted to pitch my tent in Rabanal and remain there for the next few weeks, soaking up the peace of the town, becoming Fr. Javier's friend, living a simple life in the pilgrim house.
Rabanal reignited my desire for Heaven. I was longing for a place of infinite peace and contentedness but also a place that wouldn't require me to leave. I wanted to be near the priest who was quick to smile and tease, but devout in prayer and reverence. Yet even more so I wanted to be infinitely closer to the High Priest who understands me entirely and loves me fiercely. If the Camino is life and Santiago is Heaven, then Rabanal was a vision along that way that pushed me onward in body and spirit.
Fr. Javier became the priest who redeemed, in my mind, the fate of the Spanish prelate. He welcomed, with that characteristic Benedictine hospitality, all of us into the pilgrim house and provided all we needed. The entire time there was provided on donation basis but I felt the money I left to be insufficient. I vowed to pray for him along the Way and Fr. Javier promised to do the same for me. What a great influence he had on my Camino all as a result of us stumbling upon that town, deciding to stay, and asking to stay longer. The Lord certainly provided. Greedy as I am, I hope to someday return there. Perhaps the Lord will provide that, too.
Lights Off
Someone in Europe must have had a really great campaign for automatic fixtures. During my time on the Camino, I was continually surprised by the ubiquitous automatic lights. The conclusion I came to was that automatic is not always the best.
For example, there were several times when I was in the bathroom at a restaurant and the lights would turn off while I was in there. However, it wasn't that they turned off once while I was in there, but every thirty seconds. Another place it was the shower. If it didn't sense you moving, the light in the shower would turn off. Besides the fact that it felt creepy to have my shower light motion-sensored, it was inconvenient to have to obnoxiously wave my hands every fifteen seconds so that I wouldn't be bathing in the dark.
Restaurants and albergues that were quite small would still be filled with automatic lights. I'm used to automatic toilets and faucets but I didn't see very many of those there. There was more than one time that I would internally fume at the lights being turned off at the most inopportune time.
I guess this is what you call a first world problem, huh?
For example, there were several times when I was in the bathroom at a restaurant and the lights would turn off while I was in there. However, it wasn't that they turned off once while I was in there, but every thirty seconds. Another place it was the shower. If it didn't sense you moving, the light in the shower would turn off. Besides the fact that it felt creepy to have my shower light motion-sensored, it was inconvenient to have to obnoxiously wave my hands every fifteen seconds so that I wouldn't be bathing in the dark.
Restaurants and albergues that were quite small would still be filled with automatic lights. I'm used to automatic toilets and faucets but I didn't see very many of those there. There was more than one time that I would internally fume at the lights being turned off at the most inopportune time.
I guess this is what you call a first world problem, huh?
Thursday, September 11, 2014
A Sinister Euphemism
At times we simply grow accustomed to the sinister euphemisms that are found in our world. They make life more comfortable when we have a pleasant way to say something awful.
One of my students just turned in a parental permission form for going to pray in a park and also in front of Planned Parenthood later in the semester. Those words struck me as if I had never seen them, let alone be the one to write them: Planned Parenthood.
One would read those words and, if one didn't know any better, would assume birth takes place there. A birth might take place there but it is entirely accidental. Nobody goes to Planned Parenthood to actually walk out a parent cradling a child. The idea it presents is that you are to only become a parent if you plan to be one. Part of the trouble (or gift--matter of perspective) is that by the time Planned Parenthood is "needed" the person is most likely already a parent.
As I looked at those two little words---so innocent on their own---I wanted to say that it was unfair. They shouldn't be allowed to use those words, to speak those lies, to shove that myth down the throats of the unsuspecting and vulnerable. But of course---that is why those chose it. It is built on a foundation of lies. And do you know what happens with that kind of foundation? Jesus does.
One of my students just turned in a parental permission form for going to pray in a park and also in front of Planned Parenthood later in the semester. Those words struck me as if I had never seen them, let alone be the one to write them: Planned Parenthood.
One would read those words and, if one didn't know any better, would assume birth takes place there. A birth might take place there but it is entirely accidental. Nobody goes to Planned Parenthood to actually walk out a parent cradling a child. The idea it presents is that you are to only become a parent if you plan to be one. Part of the trouble (or gift--matter of perspective) is that by the time Planned Parenthood is "needed" the person is most likely already a parent.
As I looked at those two little words---so innocent on their own---I wanted to say that it was unfair. They shouldn't be allowed to use those words, to speak those lies, to shove that myth down the throats of the unsuspecting and vulnerable. But of course---that is why those chose it. It is built on a foundation of lies. And do you know what happens with that kind of foundation? Jesus does.
"Every one who comes to me and hears my words and does them, I will show you what he is like: he is like a man building a house, who dug deep, and laid the foundation upon rock; and when a flood arose, the stream broke against that house, and could not shake it, because it had been well built. But he who hears and does not do them is like a man who built a house on the ground without a foundation; against which the stream broke, and immediately it fell, and the ruin of that house was great." (Lk. 6: 47-49)The days of pernicious lies are numbered. In the end, everything will be tested and what is not of the Lord, will fall. And the ruin will be great.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Heart of Jesus, Sanctify my Heart
Can you imagine how large the heart of Jesus must be? How patient, how loving, how gracious, how kind, how relentlessly unfathomable His mercy?
I wish I had a heart like that. A heart that could encompass the entire world. A heart that was large enough to love all I encounter, sincerely, truly, seeking the best in them regardless of how they respond to me.
My heart, tiny, puny, cold thing that it is, is impossibly small. It is not enough to envelope my students. It is not enough to embrace my family. It isn't even enough to surround myself.
They frustrate me. I can be lead to feel defeated, disheartened, angry, annoyed, sarcastic, listless, bored, and on the verge of tears. My life is not based on teenagers, but I don't think they quite realize how much of my life centers on them. For hours I am with them. My offerings are typically rejected because students (surprise!) don't like homework and seem particularly prone to dislike even more "religion" homework. Because it is supposed to be easy. And Jesus is always the answer.
Part of me wants to lecture them for an entire class period--about how I don't like grading their papers but I do it because it is asked of me. I don't like their attitudes but I try to be forgiving without being a push-over. And I try to remain calm when they so flippantly assume that teachers desire them to fail and want to push them to the limits of sanity.
Why would I want that? I'm on the limits of sanity myself, how would an entire class of teenagers bordering on madness help me? One day last year, when the comments were more than I could bear, I asked them to think logically about what they assumed. Unless a teacher really derives pleasure from their pain, what benefit would we gain by making our students hate school? We are the ones that have to be with them all day, anyway. Why would we want to make them miserable and then try to teach them? The answer that they didn't give me? The students feel better when they assume it is simply out of spite that we give them homework. That we challenge them, not because we desire their growth, but because we desire their tears. It's an obnoxious assumption that I am certain I entertained as a high schooler. Now, on the other side of the desk, I see the ridiculousness of it all.
And this, readers, is why I need His heart. Mine is clearly too small. It gets annoyed at many things and subconsciously chooses favorites. It makes hasty judgments, harbors unforgiveness, settles for mediocrity, and all sorts of other vices.
They deserve so much more. They deserve a wide-open heart, one that has room for and welcomes all. They need a heart that is tender yet firm, tangible yet limitless, patient yet demanding, relational yet depths beyond imagining. They need Jesus. So until they understand where He is and that He is, I must be a witness of that heart of His.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, sanctify us.
"He has loved us all with a human heart. For this reason, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, pierced by our sins and for our salvation, "is quite rightly considered the chief sign and symbol of that. . . love with which the divine Redeemer continually loves the eternal Father and all human beings" without exception." --CCC 478
I wish I had a heart like that. A heart that could encompass the entire world. A heart that was large enough to love all I encounter, sincerely, truly, seeking the best in them regardless of how they respond to me.
My heart, tiny, puny, cold thing that it is, is impossibly small. It is not enough to envelope my students. It is not enough to embrace my family. It isn't even enough to surround myself.
They frustrate me. I can be lead to feel defeated, disheartened, angry, annoyed, sarcastic, listless, bored, and on the verge of tears. My life is not based on teenagers, but I don't think they quite realize how much of my life centers on them. For hours I am with them. My offerings are typically rejected because students (surprise!) don't like homework and seem particularly prone to dislike even more "religion" homework. Because it is supposed to be easy. And Jesus is always the answer.
Part of me wants to lecture them for an entire class period--about how I don't like grading their papers but I do it because it is asked of me. I don't like their attitudes but I try to be forgiving without being a push-over. And I try to remain calm when they so flippantly assume that teachers desire them to fail and want to push them to the limits of sanity.
Why would I want that? I'm on the limits of sanity myself, how would an entire class of teenagers bordering on madness help me? One day last year, when the comments were more than I could bear, I asked them to think logically about what they assumed. Unless a teacher really derives pleasure from their pain, what benefit would we gain by making our students hate school? We are the ones that have to be with them all day, anyway. Why would we want to make them miserable and then try to teach them? The answer that they didn't give me? The students feel better when they assume it is simply out of spite that we give them homework. That we challenge them, not because we desire their growth, but because we desire their tears. It's an obnoxious assumption that I am certain I entertained as a high schooler. Now, on the other side of the desk, I see the ridiculousness of it all.
And this, readers, is why I need His heart. Mine is clearly too small. It gets annoyed at many things and subconsciously chooses favorites. It makes hasty judgments, harbors unforgiveness, settles for mediocrity, and all sorts of other vices.They deserve so much more. They deserve a wide-open heart, one that has room for and welcomes all. They need a heart that is tender yet firm, tangible yet limitless, patient yet demanding, relational yet depths beyond imagining. They need Jesus. So until they understand where He is and that He is, I must be a witness of that heart of His.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, sanctify us.
"He has loved us all with a human heart. For this reason, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, pierced by our sins and for our salvation, "is quite rightly considered the chief sign and symbol of that. . . love with which the divine Redeemer continually loves the eternal Father and all human beings" without exception." --CCC 478
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Mr. Knightley and Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati
I feel very ready to fall in love. As a bonus, I've seen all of the movies, so I know exactly how it should happen. My eyes are keenly on the look-out for anything that looks like what I think love is. I've yet to find it, though. Probably because my love will come disguised as something else, as something other than the period drama/romances I've steadily consumed over the past decade.My housemates and I have watched Emma and I have essentially fallen in love with Mr. Knightley. Of all of the male leads in Jane Austen's novels, I believe he is my favorite. Sensible and kind, he is persistent in loving Emma and seeking after her own good. He is firm in his corrections of her behavior yet has a tender place in his heart for her. He is everything a young man ought to be. While not entirely, wildly consumed by his emotions for her, he admits in his proposal that if he loved her less he might be able to talk about it more. I melt inside as I watch the relationship unfold. His pure, disinterested love for her is arresting. At points he is jealous of her attachments to others, but he always seeks after her best. Faith isn't mentioned much in his lifestyle, yet he embodies so many of the works of mercy every Christian ought.
I'm sold. I'm in raptures about the fictional creation of Jane Austen's mind. He seems to be the perfect composite of all things good. The only matter that is left unresolved is the simple thing of willing him into existence.
Despite the manifold attractions of Mr. Knightley, I have also recently fallen in love with another man. However, this one is real although deceased. Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati has been pulling at my heart lately. This is largely because I've been reading a biography about him (written by his sister) and teaching a unit on him for a new class this semester.
So many things I find on Bl. Pier Giorgio trumpet him as the "ordinary Christian" and one who shows that all are called to holiness. When I examine his life, however, I find much that seems beyond me, much that seems to be very extraordinary. He is full of joy and vivacity but also contemplative and compassionate. While born into a family of affluence and influence, he desires to give his money to the poor, to live his faith ardently, and to devote his short life to service. Generosity overflows from his person as he gives his very coat and shoes to those who go without. Wealth had no hold on him and the poor were not even aware that he was wealthy. Thousands of people come out at his funeral, people that his family had no idea he helped.
This love I have for Bl. Pier Giorgio is more than simple admiration. He is weedling his way into my heart, pointing out areas that need growth. Talking or thinking about him fills me with a great joy. I want to be like Bl. Pier Giorgio. If I had lived during his time, I would have wanted to marry him. As it is, I want him to be my particular friend. I want him to be someone in Heaven who is interceding for me, petitioning Christ for the graces I need to live the Beatitudes radically.
Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati, pray for us.
Friday, September 5, 2014
If I picked favorites...this would be it
I had all sorts of mushy feelings today for one of my classes. They were working on a word find (with clues from the textbook, of course) and I guess I fell in love with them.
Every class period has its own flavor. A few people can completely change the tone of the classroom. And I think I realized today how much I like this class. I actually spent a few minutes just watching them and smiling. My heart was filled with this grand protective motherly feeling. I wanted them to never grow up and to remain just as they are. It isn't often that I wish that for sophomores in high school.
This class interacts well with each other. The students are young but fairly mature. As they worked on the word find, a few of the boys were singing a song. Another couple of boys were a little off to the side, working in a pair, and their conversation was so random but just very comfortable. They like to talk at times, but they are respectful. There are some really solid girls in that class--confident but not overbearing, smart but not trying to trip you up. They answer my questions when I ask them. When we do "contemplative time" (ten minutes of silence to contemplate a prompt I give them), they ask to do it again the next day. I took them outside if they promised to not tell any other class and I believed they kept their promise.
Perhaps on Monday I will realize that these feelings were the fleeting result of Friday tiredness and a lucky day. Yet I believe they will endure. They are filled with a lovely joy, a bubbling energy, but tempered with some introspection and genuine heart.
Thank you, Lord. May they always remain so.
Every class period has its own flavor. A few people can completely change the tone of the classroom. And I think I realized today how much I like this class. I actually spent a few minutes just watching them and smiling. My heart was filled with this grand protective motherly feeling. I wanted them to never grow up and to remain just as they are. It isn't often that I wish that for sophomores in high school.
This class interacts well with each other. The students are young but fairly mature. As they worked on the word find, a few of the boys were singing a song. Another couple of boys were a little off to the side, working in a pair, and their conversation was so random but just very comfortable. They like to talk at times, but they are respectful. There are some really solid girls in that class--confident but not overbearing, smart but not trying to trip you up. They answer my questions when I ask them. When we do "contemplative time" (ten minutes of silence to contemplate a prompt I give them), they ask to do it again the next day. I took them outside if they promised to not tell any other class and I believed they kept their promise.
Perhaps on Monday I will realize that these feelings were the fleeting result of Friday tiredness and a lucky day. Yet I believe they will endure. They are filled with a lovely joy, a bubbling energy, but tempered with some introspection and genuine heart.
Thank you, Lord. May they always remain so.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Old Love
She walked into the chapel, hunched over and slowly walking. Shocked, I saw her bow a little deeper before entering the pew after her husband. For most of the Mass she remained seated, but she would stand briefly for different parts before sitting back down again.
They were elderly and found it difficult to move but they were at an evening Mass on a weekday. I felt protective of the lady, making certain the pew didn't move as she slowly lowered herself down again. It was a witness of authentic love, of Jesus and of each other.
I found myself praying that someday, that would be me. Maybe not in Leon, Spain but somewhere in the world. That I would be able to grow old with someone, that we would make it to Mass even when standing for very long proved difficult. Gnarled hands, stooping backs, weak eyes, fairness of youth replaced with the antiquity of age, all of it points to the beauty of love that endures, that holds fast to "I do" despite trials and hardships.
I was reminded of this Spanish couple after Mass today. Walking over to the adoration chapel, I was forced to slow my steps as I followed an elderly couple. He wore a cute hat and held his wife's hand as they ambled along. It was an image of love that encouraged me. It left me wanting what they have, even though I have no idea who they are.
Young love is appealing in its own way--in the passion, in the ideals, in the dreams, in the hopes of forever, in the rampage of emotions, and the newness of adventure. But old love is reminiscent of iron tempered by fire--it is calmer, it endures, it remains steadfast, and it looks beyond the superficial.
I just love love at every stage, I guess. Just be the lay witness the Lord desires you to be.
They were elderly and found it difficult to move but they were at an evening Mass on a weekday. I felt protective of the lady, making certain the pew didn't move as she slowly lowered herself down again. It was a witness of authentic love, of Jesus and of each other.
I found myself praying that someday, that would be me. Maybe not in Leon, Spain but somewhere in the world. That I would be able to grow old with someone, that we would make it to Mass even when standing for very long proved difficult. Gnarled hands, stooping backs, weak eyes, fairness of youth replaced with the antiquity of age, all of it points to the beauty of love that endures, that holds fast to "I do" despite trials and hardships.
I was reminded of this Spanish couple after Mass today. Walking over to the adoration chapel, I was forced to slow my steps as I followed an elderly couple. He wore a cute hat and held his wife's hand as they ambled along. It was an image of love that encouraged me. It left me wanting what they have, even though I have no idea who they are.
Young love is appealing in its own way--in the passion, in the ideals, in the dreams, in the hopes of forever, in the rampage of emotions, and the newness of adventure. But old love is reminiscent of iron tempered by fire--it is calmer, it endures, it remains steadfast, and it looks beyond the superficial.
I just love love at every stage, I guess. Just be the lay witness the Lord desires you to be.
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