Her response was something along the lines of, "It's Jesus. Of course He was doing something for both of us." Her certainty and lack of surprise seemed the opposite of my wide-eyed, wide-hearted realization of God's perfect planning.
On a silent retreat, I found myself working through a painful memory I had with my sister. I had tried a couple times during prayer to get to the root of it, but I seemed to get off course. Finally, I was in the memory and I pictured Jesus there, too. The pain of the moment eased and I saw things from a better perspective, one closer to what Jesus must have experienced.
Instead of recalling only my emotions, I began to see the situation as she may have experienced it. "You are the Beloved of the Father," I found myself telling her.
Then she said those same words back to me and a deep healing occurred in that moment. Something wounded in me was restored by God, not through a conversation with my sister.
After the retreat, I decided to write her and tell her about that experience. I didn't go into detail and I didn't explain how I had felt hurt. I simply told her what transpired in prayer. The next time I saw her, she brought up the letter. She said my letter was the Lord's response to her about something she was struggling with. As she told me that the letter was good for her own heart, I was amazed. Our Lord took that inclination I had to write my sister and He used it to speak to her heart in a way I didn't know she needed.
My response was, "Woah." Hers was one of confident certainty that the Lord works in exactly that sort of way.
Sometimes the Lord takes the movements of our hearts and our own healing so He can use them to speak to others in a profound way that we never intended.
Sometimes my own healing allows others to experience the grace of God.
As fallen humans, we are always seeking to repair our fragile, little hearts. But what a different perspective I have when I think of my healing being an avenue that God uses to love others. Beyond the fact that God desires my own personal wholeness, He has a mission for me, one that requires me to seek healing for the sake of others, not just for myself.
In a way, the Church needs you to be healed. Our personal healing is a service to the Church.
Souls need you to pursue holiness and wholeness because, though perhaps unbeknownst to you, God will use that renewal to encounter them.
The Mystical Body of Christ is a mysterious being. God heals us for our own good and then seeks to use that healing to bring about restoration in others. One that may rely in part on your "Yes" to Jesus entering into those wounded parts of your own heart, areas you don't want Him to go, but which will truly revive your soul if you let Him.
Your own healing might be that catalyst for others to be healed or encounter God in a necessary way.
And so He gently asks, "What do you want me to do for you?" (Mark 10:51)
Your response? Unlock that little room within your heart that you've walled away and invite Jesus into that place. His healing, transformative presence will change you and that will change others.
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Showing posts with label silent retreat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label silent retreat. Show all posts
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Friday, July 10, 2015
The Death of My Grandpa
Before leaving for my silent retreat, I gave my mom the phone number of my spiritual director. I didn't want updates or messages, but I wanted her to have it in case something happened. Specifically, I was thinking about my grandparents' declining health. While I knew it was possible something would happen, I really thought things would be fine, that my precaution was simply preparing for the worst that wouldn't actually happen.
A few days into the retreat, I returned from Mass to find a note outside my door. My mom had called and my grandpa was not doing well. I picked up the note, read it a couple times, and then sat on the couch and cried. My heart was aching, in part for myself but also for my mother. After lunch, I sat on the same couch and entered into one of my hours of prayer. Yet at each little noise, I envisioned the downstairs door opening and my spiritual director coming to tell me that my grandpa had died. Then I realized he would probably just wait until our scheduled time. But that didn't make me stop listening for each sound, anticipating the door opening and steps on the stairs.
When he arrived, I asked if my mom had called. He said she had. For a moment, I was hopeful that she called to say things improved. He sat down, told me that my grandpa had died, and then looked at me. I, meanwhile, looked down. And he waited, patiently. Having already cried, I wanted to just move on and not revisit the tears. Yet at just a couple questions from him, I was starting to cry.
My grandpa's death wasn't tragic. He was in his 90s and had been waiting for death for a while. The last time I visited him, he joked that the only thing left to pick out were the pallbearers. The sense of humor is key to knowing my grandpa. Over the last few years, I had come to see a side of my grandpa that was new. He would open up about fears, he would talk about death, and he would get frequently misty-eyed.
I remained on retreat as long as I could, leaving early to go to my grandpa's wake. Driving there, I assumed that I would begin to cry as soon as I saw my mom. Had she started to cry, I would have started, too, but she did not. After greeting a few of my aunts and uncles, I sat in the church with some relatives and my grandpa's casket. I made it through that and the wake that evening without crying. The next day at the funeral, I was near tears only a couple times, but never succumbed.
The burial is where I wept. Prior to this, I wasn't refusing to cry. I was grieving, I had cried, and I felt very much at peace with my grandpa's death. While I didn't see him all the time, I saw him fairly often and he had lived a good, long life. The sight of uniformed military personnel is enough to get me near tears. There is something so beautiful about the uniformed men, following commands, paying their respects to the deceased. The twenty-one gunshot salute for the World War II veteran was jarring and the crying infant seemed appropriate.
But then one of my uncles brought out a couple five-gallon buckets of dirt from the family farm. Each person was able to go over and scoop up some dirt, placing it on the casket. First the line wove past my grandma, as well as my grandpa's siblings. Sobs were coming up before I even got to them. I couldn't help but consider their sorrow--losing a husband of 65 years or a sibling. My grandma sat there, looking tough and frail all at once. My heart ached for her as I bent down, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I was then shoveling a bit of earth, so dear to farmers, and pouring it on the casket.
I watched as the others filed through. My immediate family happened to be standing on the other side of the grave, but I was busy pulling myself back together. One of my uncles saw me and came over to me and gave me a side hug. Though we are not particularly close, we were united deeply in our grief. His hug was strong as his head leaned on mine, messing up my hair. We spoke briefly, but remained in that hug for a while. It was the familial bond that I was blessed to experience so ardently that day.
A few days into the retreat, I returned from Mass to find a note outside my door. My mom had called and my grandpa was not doing well. I picked up the note, read it a couple times, and then sat on the couch and cried. My heart was aching, in part for myself but also for my mother. After lunch, I sat on the same couch and entered into one of my hours of prayer. Yet at each little noise, I envisioned the downstairs door opening and my spiritual director coming to tell me that my grandpa had died. Then I realized he would probably just wait until our scheduled time. But that didn't make me stop listening for each sound, anticipating the door opening and steps on the stairs.
When he arrived, I asked if my mom had called. He said she had. For a moment, I was hopeful that she called to say things improved. He sat down, told me that my grandpa had died, and then looked at me. I, meanwhile, looked down. And he waited, patiently. Having already cried, I wanted to just move on and not revisit the tears. Yet at just a couple questions from him, I was starting to cry.
My grandpa's death wasn't tragic. He was in his 90s and had been waiting for death for a while. The last time I visited him, he joked that the only thing left to pick out were the pallbearers. The sense of humor is key to knowing my grandpa. Over the last few years, I had come to see a side of my grandpa that was new. He would open up about fears, he would talk about death, and he would get frequently misty-eyed.
I remained on retreat as long as I could, leaving early to go to my grandpa's wake. Driving there, I assumed that I would begin to cry as soon as I saw my mom. Had she started to cry, I would have started, too, but she did not. After greeting a few of my aunts and uncles, I sat in the church with some relatives and my grandpa's casket. I made it through that and the wake that evening without crying. The next day at the funeral, I was near tears only a couple times, but never succumbed.
The burial is where I wept. Prior to this, I wasn't refusing to cry. I was grieving, I had cried, and I felt very much at peace with my grandpa's death. While I didn't see him all the time, I saw him fairly often and he had lived a good, long life. The sight of uniformed military personnel is enough to get me near tears. There is something so beautiful about the uniformed men, following commands, paying their respects to the deceased. The twenty-one gunshot salute for the World War II veteran was jarring and the crying infant seemed appropriate.
But then one of my uncles brought out a couple five-gallon buckets of dirt from the family farm. Each person was able to go over and scoop up some dirt, placing it on the casket. First the line wove past my grandma, as well as my grandpa's siblings. Sobs were coming up before I even got to them. I couldn't help but consider their sorrow--losing a husband of 65 years or a sibling. My grandma sat there, looking tough and frail all at once. My heart ached for her as I bent down, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I was then shoveling a bit of earth, so dear to farmers, and pouring it on the casket.
I watched as the others filed through. My immediate family happened to be standing on the other side of the grave, but I was busy pulling myself back together. One of my uncles saw me and came over to me and gave me a side hug. Though we are not particularly close, we were united deeply in our grief. His hug was strong as his head leaned on mine, messing up my hair. We spoke briefly, but remained in that hug for a while. It was the familial bond that I was blessed to experience so ardently that day.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Loving the Bride of Christ
Prior to Lent I went on a silent retreat. It was beautiful and a source of growth. Now, I have the random instances when I am by myself in my classroom or at home and I will whisper something and then I will wonder, slightly panicked, if I was supposed to be silent. Then I remember that I do not have to be silent. This must not be a widespread problem I am thinking!
On Tuesday some of my students were still talking about the pope resigning. There was a comment from one of the girls that said her mom told her the pope probably resigned because priests in Ireland molested little boys. The comment frustrated me because if Catholics are going to proclaim this as the reason for his resignation, then I am scared to see what the media will do with the situation. I don't even need to look at the news to see some of the stones they will be hurling at the papacy, the Church, and anything slightly Catholic. Anyway, I went on to speak for them a while about how I hoped that someday they would love the Church. I wanted to say it but at first I just started with, "Someday..." Then I stopped and turned to my computer, trying to not rant just to rant. But a couple of the students said, "Someday what?" I took this as my permission to lecture them a little. I told them that I hoped someday they would love the Church so much that when someone else criticized her or hurt her, that they would feel the pain, too. I included that the Church is imperfect in her members but that she is still the Church that Jesus Christ founded. They didn't have much to say after that but I wanted to include that I hoped they would feel the pain that I did when they spoke about her like the rest of society does and when they reveal no love in their hearts for the very bride of Christ.
This lack of love for the bride of Christ is something that extends far beyond the youth. Yesterday I had parent teacher conferences and I had a 10-15 minute conversation with one mother and her daughter. Essentially the mother was telling me that the school, diocese, and Church speaks way too much about abortion and that they need to move on to other social justice issues. Like economics and the poor. I tried to explain to her that if we being with conception and teach people to understand and respect life in the beginning that the rest will follow but she wasn't buying that explanation. There was an interesting moment when she said, "Abortion is killing the Church." She went on to explain that people are constantly leaving the Church due to the issue of abortion. But I agreed with her and said, "Yes, abortion is killing the Church." She picked up on my meaning and told me that we meant two different things and I agreed with her. When I realized I had other parents waiting for me, I knew I had to wrap this conversation up since neither of us was going to convince the other. I told her if she had ideas of what else to teach she could definitely e-mail me and I would look at them. I didn't promise I would teach them but I told her I would be talking about abortion because it would be an injustice not to. It was easy to not take her criticism too personally because she was being critical of the theology department, the parishes in Sioux Falls, and the entire Catholic Church. Telling her frustrations to a first year teacher wasn't going to accomplish anything, especially when I don't agree with her completely and most of the people in charge would be on my side.
I have realized over the past few months teaching that I have a deep love for the Church. While it wasn't as though I thought I didn't before, a few instances have come up when I realize my love. When my students are being extremely critical of her and pointing out all of her flaws, it hurts me. I try to explain it all in ways they will understand but to a certain degree, they will never understand until they experience this same love that I have. Pope Benedict's resignation came as a surprise but I came away with gratitude for his humility and his love for the Church. He never wanted to be in the spotlight but he did so for the good of the Church. Now he is resigning for the good of the Church. Not because of scandal or mistakes but because he loves his bride so much that he wants nothing bad to happen to her, he wants someone to adequately defend her. He is being like Jesus on the cross, surrendering his mother to the hands of the young disciple. What a gift his papacy has been for the Church. The media will never admit this but I don't expect them to. I do, however, expect Catholics everywhere to stand up and the proclaim this truth and to not simply become one of the crowd, believing everything that the secular media writes or says.
Pray for Pope Benedict XVI! Pray for the new pope! Pray for our Church! Pray for the youth! Church Militant--let's get fighting, marching, proclaiming, and defending! Viva Cristo Rey!
On Tuesday some of my students were still talking about the pope resigning. There was a comment from one of the girls that said her mom told her the pope probably resigned because priests in Ireland molested little boys. The comment frustrated me because if Catholics are going to proclaim this as the reason for his resignation, then I am scared to see what the media will do with the situation. I don't even need to look at the news to see some of the stones they will be hurling at the papacy, the Church, and anything slightly Catholic. Anyway, I went on to speak for them a while about how I hoped that someday they would love the Church. I wanted to say it but at first I just started with, "Someday..." Then I stopped and turned to my computer, trying to not rant just to rant. But a couple of the students said, "Someday what?" I took this as my permission to lecture them a little. I told them that I hoped someday they would love the Church so much that when someone else criticized her or hurt her, that they would feel the pain, too. I included that the Church is imperfect in her members but that she is still the Church that Jesus Christ founded. They didn't have much to say after that but I wanted to include that I hoped they would feel the pain that I did when they spoke about her like the rest of society does and when they reveal no love in their hearts for the very bride of Christ.
This lack of love for the bride of Christ is something that extends far beyond the youth. Yesterday I had parent teacher conferences and I had a 10-15 minute conversation with one mother and her daughter. Essentially the mother was telling me that the school, diocese, and Church speaks way too much about abortion and that they need to move on to other social justice issues. Like economics and the poor. I tried to explain to her that if we being with conception and teach people to understand and respect life in the beginning that the rest will follow but she wasn't buying that explanation. There was an interesting moment when she said, "Abortion is killing the Church." She went on to explain that people are constantly leaving the Church due to the issue of abortion. But I agreed with her and said, "Yes, abortion is killing the Church." She picked up on my meaning and told me that we meant two different things and I agreed with her. When I realized I had other parents waiting for me, I knew I had to wrap this conversation up since neither of us was going to convince the other. I told her if she had ideas of what else to teach she could definitely e-mail me and I would look at them. I didn't promise I would teach them but I told her I would be talking about abortion because it would be an injustice not to. It was easy to not take her criticism too personally because she was being critical of the theology department, the parishes in Sioux Falls, and the entire Catholic Church. Telling her frustrations to a first year teacher wasn't going to accomplish anything, especially when I don't agree with her completely and most of the people in charge would be on my side.
I have realized over the past few months teaching that I have a deep love for the Church. While it wasn't as though I thought I didn't before, a few instances have come up when I realize my love. When my students are being extremely critical of her and pointing out all of her flaws, it hurts me. I try to explain it all in ways they will understand but to a certain degree, they will never understand until they experience this same love that I have. Pope Benedict's resignation came as a surprise but I came away with gratitude for his humility and his love for the Church. He never wanted to be in the spotlight but he did so for the good of the Church. Now he is resigning for the good of the Church. Not because of scandal or mistakes but because he loves his bride so much that he wants nothing bad to happen to her, he wants someone to adequately defend her. He is being like Jesus on the cross, surrendering his mother to the hands of the young disciple. What a gift his papacy has been for the Church. The media will never admit this but I don't expect them to. I do, however, expect Catholics everywhere to stand up and the proclaim this truth and to not simply become one of the crowd, believing everything that the secular media writes or says.
Pray for Pope Benedict XVI! Pray for the new pope! Pray for our Church! Pray for the youth! Church Militant--let's get fighting, marching, proclaiming, and defending! Viva Cristo Rey!
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