On being alone when it's disconcerting

The hardest part of college for me was always the going back to it.  It wasn't that I didn't like school, I loved school.  It wasn't that I didn't have friends, I did and they were amazingly wonderful people.  It wasn't that I had bad roommates, really awful food, or difficult situations with which to deal.  The reason it was hard to start a new school year was the feeling I felt at the beginning of the new semester.  It would be exciting, but I had this fear that I would be forgotten.  With new classes, I didn't know when my friends would be going to lunch or supper and I would have to establish a new routine for myself.  The fears weren't particularly overwhelming, but they were real.  My heart would feel like it was caged in a bit the first few days of school.  Contrary to my natural introverted temperament, the first days of the semester I didn't want to be alone.  Being alone made me a bit anxious and nervous.

The fear always faded quickly.  Within the week, I would study alone in my room and be completely fine with it.  I would call up a friend and we would go get lunch.  It was all fine.  As the years of college passed, the fear was less and less prevalent, although always subtly present.

I felt that little fear again when I moved into my first new home post-college.  My parents and sister helped me move the stuff into the house and then they drove home.  None of my housemates were home and for a little while, I began to question why I moved.  I felt isolated and alone.  That fear of being alone that is strangely so frightening to a natural introvert was again present.

I would like to say that since that point I've never again felt this disconcerting anxiety.  That, of course, would not be true.  It was the inspiration for this post.  At times I am able to feel overlooked when I come home and can't find someone to talk to, when everyone I seem to know has plans each night of the week, or when I see other people's lives moving forward while I think mine is standing still.  There is just enough truth in each of these events to make my little mind wonder if I'm not being forgotten or overlooked.  It is then that the anxious feeling returns and I don't want to be alone.
So this time, when it happened, I laid on my bed and I asked the Lord what was going on in my heart.  I asked Him to tell me the truth because my heart is getting tangled in half-truths and full-lies whispered by the evil one.  The anxiety I feel at times, isn't desired by God.  He desires peace for me.  He desires not a spirit of comparison, but a spirit that is directed toward His unique love for me.

The fears that plague our heart are not foolish, but they are not necessary.  God desires to hear about these troubles and aid us in our response toward them.  Through that conversation, our fears and anxiety will necessarily subside and peace will reign.

“Dear young people, like the first disciples, follow Jesus!  Do not be afraid to draw near to Him, to cross the threshold of His dwelling, to speak to Him face to face, as you talk with a friend.”     -St. John Paul II 

Pacem in Terris

This September 11th is one of sifting back through old memories and reliving as an adult the stories of my youth.  The feelings have a strength fourteen years after the fact that is surprising.  As an 11-year old, the gravity of the situation was not lost on me.  Yet what was unknown or scary to me then has been replaced by a deeper empathy, sensitivities that are born through maturity and growing more into a woman's heart.  Even at the time, the events of September 11th, 2001 impacted me greatly because of my father's profession.

I live in the Midwest and before that day, I didn't know what the World Trade Center even was.  Nobody I really knew even lived on the east coast and so my feelings were based on the stories I heard, wondering what was happening in our country, and recognizing that if I had lived in New York, my life might be very different.

For all of my youth, I was proud of the fact that my father was a firefighter in a nearby city.  On September 11th, as I saw firefighters respond for their duties, I felt a kinship that is born of knowing your beloved firefighter would race into that building right along with them.  The stories of firefighters climbing dozens of flights in full gear, directing people to the exit, telling them they were going to make it out as they continued to climb higher, reduced me to tears.  It didn't take too much of an imagination for me to picture the same being true of my father.  Fire engine crews being absolved by the department chaplain before entering the burning building.  With hearts beating wildly in their chests, a brotherhood of firefighters carrying out the wounded.  That would have been my dad, too.

This year I didn't just recall 9/11, I returned to the news footage, I heard the confusion in people's voice, I re-read stories of heroism.  My heart felt again that ache and my patriotism was again aroused.  Because I remember after 9/11 how the country was bonded together and how "God bless America" was not uttered as a passing comment but as something we infused in our very marrow.  In a country that now daily bleeds division in terms of political party, religious creed, color, and wealth, it was refreshing to go back to a day of devastation and remember the unity that is forged through suffering and pain.  The 11-year old Trish wept for people she had never met, for families she never knew.  It was not anger that drew us together, even though there was a decent amount of that, but it was a mutual love of our own country and the experience of communal woundedness.

I watched most of the CNN live coverage of 9/11.  Story after story, I read about firefighters who offered themselves for those they had a responsibility to protect.  For my students, this is an event they learn about in history class, something foreign to them that they are told is important.  Yet for me it is a defining moment of the age I grew up in.  It is one of those memorable historic events that makes an impression on young and old souls alike.

Despite my love for my nation, conflicted and tormented though it be at times, I cannot simply stop at recalling 9/11.  I must extend this awareness of suffering and warfare to those around the world.  The Syrian refugees who are fleeing, the conflict in the Middle East, the impact of radical Islam on their neighboring Christians.  September 11th is but one of the instances of humanity willingly inflicting pain on humanity.  On that day of national remembrance, I led a prayer with my students, pleading for peace for the whole world.  It isn't as though there are just wounds that are fourteen years old, there are daily wounds being made, blood still pouring out, "the voice of your brother's blood is crying...from the ground." (Gen. 4:10)  And the Lord is asking, "What have you done?"  It is not enough to recall, we must respond.

Peace is fervently needed.  Our world is aching for peace, our country's deep-seated tension is pleading for peace, our families are battle-weary, and our very souls are hungry for internal unity.  Global peace is only attained through the soul-peace being achieved by each person.  When we experience honesty and integrity in the most difficult areas of our life.  When I cease to battle against the Lord of my soul and seek to understand my very self in way that may seem frightening or off-putting.

As we sift back through the memories of old hurts, of the traumas of humanity, may we also experience a renewed desire for peace and hearts of compassion to encounter those in their war-torn moments.  May our yearning for union override our wanting to win at all costs.  May the Queen of Peace pour grace and mercy upon our world that will bring us to unwavering peace, starting with our own souls. 

To Apologize

After three years of teaching high school Apologetics, I believe I understand the concept.

The idea of going into a full-out debate about religion, is a little frightening to me, even with a Theology degree and three years of teaching experience.  My fear is partly because I don't like tension-filled debates; I prefer discussions.

Outside of the classroom, I have had three notable theological discussions in the past year.  They were good experiences because I had started thinking that I teach a class while I have little practical experience with the matter.  Now I am realizing that I do have experience and it happens more often than I realize.  My three "big" discussions were memorable because of the length of time spent talking as well as the breadth of material covered.  Yet a similar experience happens on a more frequent basis--when my students, friends, or family ask a question and I attempt to explain the Church's teaching on the matter.

Nearly as important as knowing the theological answer is one's disposition.  I don't claim to do it perfectly, but I try to listen to them and to not become offended when their belief differs from mine.  While I do want to make my points clear and provide good arguments for my beliefs, I don't need the other person to feel trapped or badgered.  If I wouldn't like to be backed into a corner, then I try not to do the same to the other person.  It isn't being two-faced if you approach issues differently with different people.  My discussions on abortion are incredibly different based on if they are with my immediate family or my students or with a woman in front of an abortion clinic.  The varied people and places required customized responses.  In most situations, there is no one-size-fits-all response, as convenient as that might make things.

I could be wrong about this last assertion, but I believe Apologetics works best when it comes in the context of a relationship.  It is possible to give a talk to a group of strangers and have someone change their heart because of that talk.  But in one-on-one Apologetics, it seems crucial that there be some sort of relationship with the person, a sense of trust that the other person (though they might be wrong) is entering into this discussion out of love and not a desire to just win.  Our family and friends might be some of the most difficult people to engage in conversation, but I think it could be some of the most fruitful.  In my conversation with a friend, we were able to challenge each others positions without becoming offended.  Why?  Because we were able to see that the other person respected us and desired our good, even if they were presenting something contrary to my own beliefs.  The result was a beautiful discussion that still makes me marvel.  I left the conversation knowing that I hadn't completely changed her mind, but rather had given her food for thought.  Walking away, I wished that more in our country could have debates like this.  Not devoid of emotion necessarily, but filled with reasons for belief and presented freely with the understanding that the other person would not attack me for my beliefs.  It is my mental model for how Apologetics can be done.

Even if you do not have a doctorate in Theology or have the ability to quote Scripture off the cuff, you should be engaging in Apologetics.  In the simple truths of explaining why Catholics do what we do.  We engage in Apologetics by striving to live the Christianity that Christ proclaimed--with humility, gentleness, self-control, love, boldness, zeal, and a willingness to suffer persecution for the sake of the Gospel.  And we engage those around us, in our imperfect, unique, striving-after-more ways.  You might be the only Gospel someone encounters.  Live it well.

Asking "Why?"

One of things I've come to realize is that I often need to guide myself in processing my own feelings.  Sometimes I feel things and I acknowledge what I feel, but then I stop there.  I don't go into asking myself why I feel that way.  It can almost seem silly to do that.  If you get in a fight and are angry, of course it was the fight that was the impetus for the anger you now feel.  Yet I'm learning that I need to ask myself why I feel a specific emotion, and then begin the process of sorting through what exactly made me feel that way.

The problem isn't necessarily solved just because I thought about why I was feeling a particular way, but it often is the first step in the process.  Sometimes it takes a while to pinpoint what exactly it was that triggered my response.  The information isn't always exactly welcomed information because it often reveals an area of weakness within myself, something that I thought I had sufficiently covered or fixed.  Yet it is a starting point, nonetheless.  Ideally, I can acknowledge what I feel, relate it to the Lord, understand why I feel that way, and receive His grace to carry on.  Interestingly enough, that is quite a bit like a prayer I've prayed with many times--the A.R.R.R. prayer.

"A.R.R.R. stands for—Acknowledge, Relate, Receive, Respond.

You have sat with God’s Word.  You have entered into the scene. Now, once you feel God is saying something to you, acknowledge what stirs within you. Pay attention to your thoughts, feelings, and desires. These are important.

Once you’ve acknowledged what’s going on inside your heart, relate this to God. Don’t just think about what’s going on. Don’t simply think about God. Don’t think about how God might react. Relate to God. Tell him how you feel. Tell him what you think. Tell him what you want. Share all your thoughts, feelings, and desires with God. Share everything with Him.

Once you’ve shared everything with God, receive. Listen to what He’s telling you. It could be a subtle voice you hear. It could be a memory that pops up. Maybe He invites you to re-read the Scripture passage. Perhaps you feel something in your body. Perhaps he invites you into a still, restful, silence. Trust that God is listening to you and receive what He wants to share with you.

Now respond however you want. It could be more conversation.  It could be a resolution.  It could be tears or laughter. Respond to what you’re receiving."

(courtesy of: http://priestlyformation.org/resources/resources-from-ipf-staff/fr-mark-toups/nativity/how-to-use-this-resource/)

      

First Week, Fourth Year

The first week of a new school year seems to feel the longest.  It was Tuesday this week when I realized it was only Tuesday and it felt like it should be Friday.  Yet by the time I reached Friday, I was getting into the swing of things.

As a veteran teacher (hello, fourth year!), I am enjoying knowing what I am doing some of the time.  When students ask me questions, it is often to rules or practices I have already established, questions that I have already answered in previous years.  Perhaps I am most excited about the fact that each year I feel more and more comfortable in my role as teacher.  I'm not completely at ease with my students, but I feel the most myself this first week that I ever have.  I know difficulties will arise, arguments, tough questions, senioritis, and sass, but I will take it in stride.  Thankfully, the Lord has been giving me the grace over the last few years of letting my students' attitudes dictate less and less how I respond.  I don't take things quite so personally anymore and it is only something that time could help me achieve.

Overall, my classes are pretty good.  My sophomore classes appear fun and respectful and my seniors seem to be willing to listen.  Yet I am going to refrain from naming too many more wholesome traits because it is only the end of the first week.  Time and homework will reveal their true colors.  My mind recalls my first year of teaching as being one of the most stressful and the students who made life difficult for me still stand out in my memory.  It is hard to tell if the classes are really that different or if the difference lies mainly within myself.  I am prone to think it is a bit of both but mostly the latter.

So here is to a good school year, one richly overflowing with blessings and all that the Lord desires to do in His good time.  And if all goes awry, I can turn to the intercession of a teacher who didn't always have the most receptive audience, sometimes aroused anger, and whom we celebrate today--St. John the Baptist.  

Perhaps my saving grace

Even though I no longer have my beautiful 7th period Scripture class from last year, I think they may be my saving grace this year.  I'm not ruling out falling in love with all of my classes this year (although, admittedly, I think I have discovered on the first day the class that will be the most difficult to love), but with my students from last year, there is no need to win their approval--I already have it.  One of them stopped by twice today, pretending he was in my class again this year.  Two stood in my doorway after school to ask about my summer and told me they planned to say "hi" everyday after school.  I've seen a few in the halls and many have greeted me with big smiles.

I'm human.  I enjoy being liked and accepted for who I am.  As I start the process of learning the dynamics of new classes and new students, I am enjoying the chance to still bask in the glories of my hard work from last year.  The Lord truly blessed me and is continuing to show me those blessings.  The Lord must know I will need that grace for this upcoming year.

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.