I grew up hearing the love stories of my parents and grandparents. My parents knew of each other throughout their youth, since they were both from two large families in the same town, with many of their siblings being in the same grades. When my mom was trying to avoid a young man who was interested in her, she chose to sit with my dad at a graduation reception. That event turned into dates (my dad saying my mom begged him and my mom saying that my dad asked for a date) and eventually a relationship, with a breakup to ensure my mom had found the right man. She had.
My paternal grandparents met in a "romantic" meat-packing plant. After a couple dates, my grandpa proposed and six months later they were married. They were together for over sixty years, until my grandmother passed away from lung cancer. My maternal grandparents met at a dance and my grandma's brother asked my grandpa to drive her home. The rest seemed to be history--marriage shortly followed and a brood of children. Over sixty years later and they are still married, my grandpa cracking jokes and my grandma still thinking he isn't funny.
My mom and grandmas all got married fairly young. At times, it is easy for me to begin to do the calculations. "If I was my mother.....I would be married, with a toddler and another baby due in a couple months." These thoughts aren't really comforting, nor are they intended to be. Instead, they instill a sense of urgency, a feeling that I am missing out. It's the all-too-dreaded ticking of the biological clock. It is enough to make me panic, even as others around me are saying, "You're young, you have plenty of time."
The other day I came to a greater realization of life. At times a relationship and marriage dominate much of my thoughts and desires. But marriage is only a means to an end. If the goal is Heaven, marriage is meant to get me there. Life is meant to be spent striving for spiritual perfection and Heaven. That mission is one that relates to me now. No, I don't have a beau or a marriage to invest in. Yet if God knows everything, He must have intended this time to be used for something other than just waiting for my life to start, because it has clearly already begun.
Someday I hope to have a story of how I met my husband. Inevitably, it will be different than my mother's story. Yet I've been blessed to have experiences and adventures that my mother did not have. Even as I desire a life of wedded bliss, I strive to embrace my present state in life so that I will be prepared for the next state and for the next life.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Independence and Surrender
Our entire lives seem to be a battle between independence and surrender. We seek independence at an early age and relish it for much of our lives. My two year old niece enjoys the freedom of saying "no" and running where she wants, when she wants. My nephews want to help with chores and frequently refuse help for themselves, instead wanting to demonstrate their ability to do it on their own. As adults, we are quick to forget there is any uniqueness in driving where we want, buying what we want, and living how we want.
Age or misfortune catches up to us and we soon find ourselves losing our independence. We can fight this inevitable fate, but it will only breed bitterness and malcontent. Eventually, we must surrender. In the spiritual life, we can learn this gift of surrender earlier. Relinquishing control of our lives, realizing that we are not the ones in control or willing our own existence, can prepare us for the gradual physical surrender that must happen.
My grandparents are aging and I see the fighting that takes place within them. I do not blame their desire to grasp their dwindling freedom or to express frustration at a body that is now turning against them. The simple freedoms are gradually slipping away--no walking around the block, no trips to the grocery store, no single bed for them to share. The task of getting ready for bed, something so mundane one often forgets it, is now one that requires help. Waiting outside their bedroom as they were ushered to bed, I thought of how someday that will be me, helping my parents. And perhaps someday it will be me, being helped to bed. Inwardly, I rebel at the thought. I think that I will break the mold, I will not need the help, I will do it on my own.
When visiting them, I can sense the mounting frustration. There seems to be both a desire to return to health and a desire to die. My grandparents have not aged prematurely. In their late 80s-early 90s, they are as fit as one might expect them to be. Thankfully, they are ill in body but, apart from a little confusion, sound in mind. I wonder what to say---do I speak of suffering? Do I remind them to be thankful of their blessings? Do I try to lighten the mood? Mostly, I just listen. I listen to my grandpa tell me about the picture of grandma now on the piano. He says he wanted it there because that is how she looked when they met. Her beauty floored him. I listen to my grandma talk about one of my many cousins. Her life for so many years has been about others, even now she finds it difficult to draw conversation to herself. I listen to my grandpa's worries and fears. I listen to my grandma attempt to follow my mom around the kitchen, asking what she needs help with and telling her what to do.
While age has forced my grandparents to lose independence, illness can do the same for others far younger. I have a friend from college who has been battling a debilitating illness for the last three years. It causes her intelligent brain to rebel against reading more than a few lines at a time and forces her marathon trained body to be weak and unpredictable. I refuse to canonize her yet, but I have witnessed the beauty of her striving to surrender herself to God in His inscrutable plan. Such a situation could easily lead to depression and bitterness, but she is fighting the good fight, ironically by striving to lay down her arms.
How do we surrender? It is a choice. We can see physically our limitations. I can really want to do something yet find myself incapable. The spiritual limitations are less clear. With those, we can fool ourselves into thinking they aren't there or that we have surrendered, simply by virtue of thinking the words once or twice.
In surrendering, we choose to not manipulate the situation, we choose to not be in control. After years of being told that we can do it and that we are the ones running our lives, it is counter-cultural to step back and release control. I can drive myself anywhere I want, I can eat whatever food I want, and I can spend my time as I choose. But I do not will my heart to keep beating, I cannot control the replication of my cells, and I am powerless in making myself continue to exist. For all the little things I doggedly control, I am incapable of controlling all the major aspects of my life. Accepting God's authority in my life is central to becoming the saint He desires me to be.
Lord, help us to surrender, to admit with our lives that we are not the ones in control. In our inmost being we desire to belong to You and to give ourselves over to You. Grant us the grace to do so.
Age or misfortune catches up to us and we soon find ourselves losing our independence. We can fight this inevitable fate, but it will only breed bitterness and malcontent. Eventually, we must surrender. In the spiritual life, we can learn this gift of surrender earlier. Relinquishing control of our lives, realizing that we are not the ones in control or willing our own existence, can prepare us for the gradual physical surrender that must happen.
My grandparents are aging and I see the fighting that takes place within them. I do not blame their desire to grasp their dwindling freedom or to express frustration at a body that is now turning against them. The simple freedoms are gradually slipping away--no walking around the block, no trips to the grocery store, no single bed for them to share. The task of getting ready for bed, something so mundane one often forgets it, is now one that requires help. Waiting outside their bedroom as they were ushered to bed, I thought of how someday that will be me, helping my parents. And perhaps someday it will be me, being helped to bed. Inwardly, I rebel at the thought. I think that I will break the mold, I will not need the help, I will do it on my own.
When visiting them, I can sense the mounting frustration. There seems to be both a desire to return to health and a desire to die. My grandparents have not aged prematurely. In their late 80s-early 90s, they are as fit as one might expect them to be. Thankfully, they are ill in body but, apart from a little confusion, sound in mind. I wonder what to say---do I speak of suffering? Do I remind them to be thankful of their blessings? Do I try to lighten the mood? Mostly, I just listen. I listen to my grandpa tell me about the picture of grandma now on the piano. He says he wanted it there because that is how she looked when they met. Her beauty floored him. I listen to my grandma talk about one of my many cousins. Her life for so many years has been about others, even now she finds it difficult to draw conversation to herself. I listen to my grandpa's worries and fears. I listen to my grandma attempt to follow my mom around the kitchen, asking what she needs help with and telling her what to do.
While age has forced my grandparents to lose independence, illness can do the same for others far younger. I have a friend from college who has been battling a debilitating illness for the last three years. It causes her intelligent brain to rebel against reading more than a few lines at a time and forces her marathon trained body to be weak and unpredictable. I refuse to canonize her yet, but I have witnessed the beauty of her striving to surrender herself to God in His inscrutable plan. Such a situation could easily lead to depression and bitterness, but she is fighting the good fight, ironically by striving to lay down her arms.
How do we surrender? It is a choice. We can see physically our limitations. I can really want to do something yet find myself incapable. The spiritual limitations are less clear. With those, we can fool ourselves into thinking they aren't there or that we have surrendered, simply by virtue of thinking the words once or twice.
In surrendering, we choose to not manipulate the situation, we choose to not be in control. After years of being told that we can do it and that we are the ones running our lives, it is counter-cultural to step back and release control. I can drive myself anywhere I want, I can eat whatever food I want, and I can spend my time as I choose. But I do not will my heart to keep beating, I cannot control the replication of my cells, and I am powerless in making myself continue to exist. For all the little things I doggedly control, I am incapable of controlling all the major aspects of my life. Accepting God's authority in my life is central to becoming the saint He desires me to be.
Lord, help us to surrender, to admit with our lives that we are not the ones in control. In our inmost being we desire to belong to You and to give ourselves over to You. Grant us the grace to do so.
"Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." John 21: 18
Monday, June 15, 2015
Sacred Transplant
"I'm looking for my heart because I feel like I've lost it." I was surprised by the honesty from the young Canadian friend I made on the Camino. It made one ache just to hear of the quest and immediately hope for the success of the mission.
Interestingly enough, my Camino quest was different. Instead of finding my heart, I wanted to give it away. Not to just anyone. I was seeking clarity and hope in regards to my vocation, but early on, I knew that I wanted to give my heart more fully to Jesus as I walked the next five hundred miles with Him.
The days on the Camino were simple, idealized in my memory now that blisters have healed. As an introvert, I relished the time spent walking alone, gazing at the beauty of nature and contemplating Beauty Himself.
In Leon, we went to Mass in the side chapel of the massive Cathedral. Refreshingly enough, we weren't ousted from the chapel right at the end of Mass, permitting us some time to pray. Often throughout my walk I would picture myself with Jesus. In the chapel, I did the same thing. My intended meditation was hijacked by the Holy Spirit and instead of meditating on Mary, I was taken to an operating table. Jesus took my heart and gave me His Heart. It was simple but profound. Then He picked me up and carried me.
"Oh, I'm His cross," I thought at first. But in the next thought/prayer, one that completely alters the initial perception, I contemplated, "No, I'm His Bride."
Not a burden or a sacrifice, but a joy, a Beloved one. In that prayer in Leon, I experienced the reality of Christ's desires. Longing to give my heart away, Christ is longing to receive my heart and give me His own heart. In a method of Divine Sacred Heart Transplant, He impressed upon me the knowledge that His home is in me and that my ache to give my heart away was matched by my less articulated ache to receive Him fully.
Interestingly enough, my Camino quest was different. Instead of finding my heart, I wanted to give it away. Not to just anyone. I was seeking clarity and hope in regards to my vocation, but early on, I knew that I wanted to give my heart more fully to Jesus as I walked the next five hundred miles with Him.
The days on the Camino were simple, idealized in my memory now that blisters have healed. As an introvert, I relished the time spent walking alone, gazing at the beauty of nature and contemplating Beauty Himself.
"Oh, I'm His cross," I thought at first. But in the next thought/prayer, one that completely alters the initial perception, I contemplated, "No, I'm His Bride."
Not a burden or a sacrifice, but a joy, a Beloved one. In that prayer in Leon, I experienced the reality of Christ's desires. Longing to give my heart away, Christ is longing to receive my heart and give me His own heart. In a method of Divine Sacred Heart Transplant, He impressed upon me the knowledge that His home is in me and that my ache to give my heart away was matched by my less articulated ache to receive Him fully.
Friday, June 12, 2015
Potent
Don't judge a book based on the cover.
It is a true sentiment, but sometimes I do it. While strolling through a bookshop, I am innately drawn to the beautiful, leather-bound books, particularly if they look old or have a bookmark sewn into the spine. Gold etching adorns the spine of the book and I cannot help but think there are few joys I hold more closely to my heart than the book I excitedly cradle in my arms.
There is power in the printed word. I've been told this and have experienced the truth of it. I've discovered that writing fills a longing and desire in me that cannot be met in any other way. My ability to express myself is best if I can write the words rather than speak them. At times I am jealous of the way other art forms can express themselves. One can admire a painting for several minutes, incline an ear to an intricate selection of music, gaze at a photograph with delight, or take in the rapture of a play. But the written word must be read and unless one is including pictures, there is little to call extra attention to the black words on white paper. The words, to be sure, speak for themselves, but there must be time and attention given to them. Quite often, the words are overlooked.
At times I speak too little and other times I speak too much. If you don't know me well, I can come off as quiet, standoffish, and serious. More time can reveal different qualities or attributes, ones not readily ascertained by a quick appraisal of the cover.
The words used matter. I have a difficult time convincing my students that using the appropriate and precise words theologically are crucial. To them, saying nearly the same thing is close enough. Even when they are explaining concepts and ideas verbally, they find themselves slipping very easily into something nearly true, yet in the end still wrong. With a barrage of words surrounding them, they seem to find it difficult to say what they mean and mean what they say.
A closely related problem is honesty. It has been a long time since I've consciously lied. Sometimes I say things that are false out of ignorance or misinformation and other times I mean what I say but forget to follow through or am prevented from doing so. Yet it seems as a culture that we find it too easy to say something false. What is perhaps worse is that we are quick to defend ourselves or to minimize the seriousness of the situation. It wasn't a serious matter that we lied about or it was simply easier to say a lie than to explain the truth. We absolve ourselves before we've contemplated our error. If one insists upon the truth, one can be seen as being too scrupulous or moralistic.
Words appear simple and unassuming. We can judge them to be of little value or worth when we tell a lie or do not care to put in the effort to be precise. Yet we are also well aware of the power of words when we hear a moving talk, listen to sharp criticism, or hear someone say "I love you" for the first time. Words have a potency, a vibrancy that is found within the way they are paired with one another and printed on the page or spoken out loud. Do not be fooled by the humility of the written or spoken word. Though they be small, they have power. Use them well.
It is a true sentiment, but sometimes I do it. While strolling through a bookshop, I am innately drawn to the beautiful, leather-bound books, particularly if they look old or have a bookmark sewn into the spine. Gold etching adorns the spine of the book and I cannot help but think there are few joys I hold more closely to my heart than the book I excitedly cradle in my arms.
There is power in the printed word. I've been told this and have experienced the truth of it. I've discovered that writing fills a longing and desire in me that cannot be met in any other way. My ability to express myself is best if I can write the words rather than speak them. At times I am jealous of the way other art forms can express themselves. One can admire a painting for several minutes, incline an ear to an intricate selection of music, gaze at a photograph with delight, or take in the rapture of a play. But the written word must be read and unless one is including pictures, there is little to call extra attention to the black words on white paper. The words, to be sure, speak for themselves, but there must be time and attention given to them. Quite often, the words are overlooked.
At times I speak too little and other times I speak too much. If you don't know me well, I can come off as quiet, standoffish, and serious. More time can reveal different qualities or attributes, ones not readily ascertained by a quick appraisal of the cover.
The words used matter. I have a difficult time convincing my students that using the appropriate and precise words theologically are crucial. To them, saying nearly the same thing is close enough. Even when they are explaining concepts and ideas verbally, they find themselves slipping very easily into something nearly true, yet in the end still wrong. With a barrage of words surrounding them, they seem to find it difficult to say what they mean and mean what they say.
A closely related problem is honesty. It has been a long time since I've consciously lied. Sometimes I say things that are false out of ignorance or misinformation and other times I mean what I say but forget to follow through or am prevented from doing so. Yet it seems as a culture that we find it too easy to say something false. What is perhaps worse is that we are quick to defend ourselves or to minimize the seriousness of the situation. It wasn't a serious matter that we lied about or it was simply easier to say a lie than to explain the truth. We absolve ourselves before we've contemplated our error. If one insists upon the truth, one can be seen as being too scrupulous or moralistic.
Words appear simple and unassuming. We can judge them to be of little value or worth when we tell a lie or do not care to put in the effort to be precise. Yet we are also well aware of the power of words when we hear a moving talk, listen to sharp criticism, or hear someone say "I love you" for the first time. Words have a potency, a vibrancy that is found within the way they are paired with one another and printed on the page or spoken out loud. Do not be fooled by the humility of the written or spoken word. Though they be small, they have power. Use them well.
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