A crimson leaf, high-hoped, leapt heavenward,
but autumn’s failing breath sustained it not;
with dew-teared face it kissed its dreams goodbye
and fell, and sank, to wither and to rot.
He watched the half-black skies that drowned the day,
his azure Eden hidden from his sight.
As crimson turned to earth, he whispered soft,
“Stay not long hidden, bringer of the light,”
’til just before the earth was tucked within
its blanket, resurrection to await,
with broken brethren he was gathered in,
a child’s exuberance to satiate.
First child, then leaf, leapt heavenward aglow,
and fell with breezy laughter back below.
If you’re a Catholic millennial, chances are you’ve heard the catchphrase “Love is more than sex” more times than you can remember. I’m pretty sure there are literally bumper stickers, pins, t-shirts, and the like that have that phrase in big, bold letters. And to be fair, in the world in which we live, that catchphrase ought to be a battle-cry, a rallying point around which the beauty of love can be defended against modernity. There are certainly people who need to hear that love doesn’t just begin and end with sexual experiences or attractions.
The thing is, people need to hear more than the battle-cry. When we move others to desert the camps of the enemy and join our ranks, we need to teach them the truth behind the battle-cry, the reality which we have encountered that lets us shout it not just from our lips but from the very depths of our hearts. And speaking as a Catholic millennial, oftentimes, as soon as we take the bumper sticker, we’re kind of left hanging, still questioning, still uncertain.
See, we get this. We know love is more than sex. In truth, even most people who have bought into modernity still realize that “love is more than sex”. To use a semi-crude example, there’s an episode of Friends (POTENTIAL SPOILER) where Phoebe says about Monica and Chandler, “I just thought you were doing it! I didn’t know you were in love!” *cue laugh track* Yeah, it’s totally eye-roll worthy, but take a second and look at what the implication is. There’s a distinction between “doing it” and “being in love”. There’s something more going on, something that brings more than pleasure; it brings a certain happiness, a good feeling of closeness that’s more than physical. So as long as they have that other part to it, the “being in love”, it’s all good, right?
Not so much; any good chastity speaker will tell you so. And that’s where the snag is. The thing is, I think this is where we miss the mark in particular when ministering to our brothers and sisters who struggle with same-sex attraction. Just telling them that “love is more than sex” isn’t enough, because chances are, they already know that. What they really mean when they say, “Why are you against love?” is really something closer to, “Why do you want me to be unhappy?” There are a lot of these people who aren’t really arguing so much for unrestrained sex as they are for their chance to be happy with another person, to have what those ideal married couples have, even if it doesn’t look the same.
If we want to be taken seriously in our defense both of chastity and real love, then we need to get the concept of intimacy right. Intimacy is that “something” that modernity sees as the difference between “doing it” and “being in love”. It’s closeness, it’s seeing and knowing the other person at their deepest levels, it’s being tied together on a spiritual level that manifests itself on the physical level. It’s present in any kind of real love there is–familial, friendly, romantic, you name it. And while romantic intimacy most obviously manifests itself as sexual, that’s only one piece of it. Holding hands, knowing each other’s intimate likes and dislikes, always sharing with one another, finding happiness in just being close to them and even more in knowing that you’re “with” them in a way no one else is–these are all facets of it, and I’m barely scratching the surface. And we all have an ache in our hearts for that. We all see the goodness in this deep interpersonal intimacy. So how do we tell a man who wants to be with another man that it would be wrong without robbing him of some of the deepest desires of his heart?
We have to show him that the desire for God runs deeper.
We can’t just keep shouting “Love is more than sex”, we have to show them that love is even more than intimacy. We can’t just argue that real love is desiring and acting for the good of the other person, we have to bring them to an encounter with the One Who IS their good. We can’t just appeal to their confused minds, we have to tend to their wounded hearts. We have to be willing to step into the myriad facets of this unique struggle that has such popular prominence in our world, to engage not just our idea of what the problem is but the actual day-to-day fight for authentic love and happiness these people face. We need to go beyond telling them to “offer it up” and introduce them to the beauty of suffering love that Christ has made possible on the Cross.
In short, catchphrases and battle-cries aren’t going to cut it if we hope to turn the tide in our war against a world that turns a legitimate struggle into a glorified rebellion against God and His Church; the only One Who can win this fight is Christ, made present by the Holy Spirit, leading us to the Father. If we truly want to evangelize and minister to the broken-hearted, our job is to make His voice, not our own, heard as rolling thunder in the public square and, more importantly, as a still, small voice in the intimate moments of each human life.
Just gonna start thinking out loud. I’ve been listening to Hamilton: An American Musical (*insert wild, shameless plug for possibly the greatest musical of our time*) a lot lately, and the line that I made the title of this post has always really struck me. And I think now I see a little bit of why.
There’s a big difference, at least in this life, between the winning of a victory and the extending/sustaining of what you’ve won. In other words, it’s one thing to drive out an enemy or claim something for yourself, and another, more challenging thing to keep what you’ve defended or claimed safe and in order. Winning a battle is no walk in the park, don’t get me wrong; it takes a lot of sacrifice and a lot of holding yourself to high standards, keeping your eyes focused on what you’re fighting for. But once that battle is done, to keep what you’ve fought for in place, keep it true to its trajectory, make decisions with what you’ve fought for in mind, and build up a defense against what you’ve fought against (both internally and externally)–it’s something that’s never really complete, because life is so dynamic that bringing the truth, the reality that you believe in to bear on the present is a constant task you have to undertake and live according to.
This is true of a lot of things in my own life. My faith, for example. The Catholic Church was brought into being two thousand years ago after Jesus conquered sin and death at Calvary, so the victory is won, the kingdom is established. But bringing that kingdom to every corner of the world, defending it against the relentless losing strokes of the enemy, reminding its subjects Who they serve and how to serve Him–all that is the story of salvation history, and it’s still going on. And it’s not that much of stretch to say that the Church has never had such a difficult time opening the eyes of the world to the truth about itself and the God Who made it. Still that “governing” stage goes on, sustained by the life of grace which has always to be cultivated by continually seeking union with Christ, the Head of the Mystical Body.
More personally, it’s true of my own life. I’ve won huge victories against depression and anxiety, battles I was never sure I’d win. Thanks to God’s healing and strength, I can actually say that I can live my life and take each moment with overarching joy. But now I have no excuses for the sinful habits that developed and festered underneath the perpetual storm clouds; the sun is shining on me now, even when it gets rainy, and it’s up to me whether it shines on deeds of light or darkness. The battle to live my life is won; now I must govern it. And shoot dang, it’s tough. The weeds of sin grow really tangled roots really fast, and it’s been ages since I properly tended the garden. Now it’s exhausting to make it through a single row.
So what’s the solution here? Keep exhausting myself, only to plop down and chuck the weeds back onto the ground where their seeds can just take root again?
Honestly, that’s been my solution for a long time now. Weed a row, plop down, undo all the work, go to Confession, wash, rinse, repeat. It’s like watching the same seven seconds of a movie over and over again until you’ve forgotten how the movie ends and you look up to find out you’ve wasted two hours on those same stupid seven seconds on repeat. Not exactly ideal. Feels a lot like “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.” The clouds were blocking out the sun and my memory of it for awhile; now that the sun is a constant, I’m finding I let myself get pretty caked in mud and crap, and I get so tired of rubbing it off and keeping myself away from it that I just plop back down in it and let myself get covered in it again before I remember how badly I want to be clean.
So how the heck am I supposed to do this? How do I go from momentary victory to lifelong governance towards the good?
I think there are three things I’ve learned that I need to put into practice on this:
1. I ACTUALLY NEED TO PUT THE THINGS I’VE LEARNED INTO PRACTICE.
It’s one thing to know what I need to do, and another thing to do it. I’ve got the principles, but if I don’t govern myself according to them, they just remind me how far away I am from living according to them, and the walls of the hole I’m in just become more clearly defined. If I want to actually move forward, I need to act on them. The Catholic principle that grace builds on nature presupposes that we actually order our nature towards its proper end, that we actually act for our good, for the good. God didn’t make us as automatons that just need proper programming; we’re meant to be loving children, freely living according to His Law, which reveals to us our fullest flourishing and happiness. If we want that, we have to act, and act boldly, according to that. Laziness is all too easy to get caught in, as is complacency. Excuses just aren’t going to cut it; excuses only get us to mediocrity, or maybe normalcy, not holiness.
2. I SHOULDN’T TRY TO DO THIS ON MY OWN.
If I’m going to live a life of virtue, I need to step out of the way. We’re pretty much powerless to live a good life on our own, people; we’re fallen. We have to remember that. We’re broken at a very deep level. Baptism heals that break (praise God!), but we’re still affected by that. But the Good News is that we’re not asked to do this alone. Christ came and died for our sins and rose to restore our everlasting life. And He gives us the New Law, the Holy Spirit. That’s the great thing about the gift of the Holy Spirit as the New Law: we don’t live under a merely external set of principles that only serves to let us know how frail and faulty we are. We are given one of the very Persons of the Trinity to dwell within us and direct all our actions, all our thoughts, all our words, to be in accordance with the will of God (if we let Him), one Who gives us the power to live the life we are called to. Any attempt on our part to do this alone is going to fail. To live well, first and foremost, we have to give up the idea that we have the power to be holy without the only One Who is truly holy. To live well is to surrender.
3. IT’S TIME FOR HEROIC VIRTUE.
Put simply, “good enough” isn’t good enough anymore. Christ made us for more than mediocrity. That’s why we are given crosses to carry, after all: to share in the redemptive work of Christ, to bring meaning even into what seem to be the most meaning-destructive moments of our lives. In the moral life, mediocrity is settling for not committing the big sins, and the devil is all too happy to take advantage of that, tempting us until we find ourselves deep in sin when we thought we were doing “just fine”. There just isn’t room for that. Our decisions aren’t just about the here and now; we’re dealing with eternity. Our eyes need to be fixed on Heaven, and every decision we make needs to keep that in mind. There’s this brilliant monologue in Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot where St. Augustine of Canterbury shocks everyone around him, even fellow priests, by insisting that they open the doors of the cathedral, even though that means that the very soldiers who seek to end his life will be able to murder him. Right in the middle, he says this: “I give myself to the law of God above the law of man.” By every earthly standard, he should have kept the door closed; above all, his job, according to the world, was to stay alive if he could. But he put himself at the service of a greater standard, one which he understood meant that his life was called for, that this was the moment in which to give everything, even the precious gift of life, for the sake of serving God and Him alone. We may never have to give our own lives so dramatically, but we are all called to such radical obedience to God’s will. We’re all called to be martyrs, even if we’re never touched by the sword.
All this being said, if there’s anything I learned in prayer this past Lent, it’s that our furious self-improvement has to be tempered by the hardest kind of patience there is: patience with ourselves, patience that persists in demanding the best while not giving up when we do the worst. The same patience as the One Who hung on the cross, seeing every sin you’ve committed and will commit, stayed on the cross for your sake, and bothers to come in the Eucharist just to say He loves you.
I’ve held out hope for a long time that I would see a day when all my past hurts would go away completely, that I’d eventually be just totally OK, that I’d be able to be in the same room with someone whose very presence excites me without being terrified of what they think of me, ashamed that I care this much, or lonely and reminded of old wounds when they were gone. That day still hasn’t come. And I’m not sure it will in this life. And I think that’s OK.
See, our God isn’t a snow-plough God (thank you, Fr. Dan Pattee, for that analogy). It’s not as if, the moment we through ourselves upon the Lord, we’ll never experience pain again. The love of the Lord doesn’t always move mountains. Sometimes it just carries us until we can start climbing again. Sometimes it’s just the next breath we take into our lungs.
And that’s OK. That’s enough.
Our hope isn’t for this world, this life. Our hope is for Heaven. It feels so far off sometimes, like a distant dream, but it’s real. It’s there, waiting for us through the dark door of death. It’s the light on the other side of the dark sepulchre that radiates back on the entirety of our lives and makes it all worth it.
Guys, this is what St. Paul means when he says, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” (Romans 8:18) It’s not that there are no sufferings. It’s that they can’t compare to the glory of Heaven, the sheer magnificence of finally being united forever with the God who loved us so much that He created us, and loved us too much to leave us when we left Him, and loves us too much to leave us alone even now. This is the great mystery of learning to suffer in the shadow of the cross: to learn that it’s enough that He came to us, that He died for us.
In coming into our world he came also into our suffering. He sits beside us in the stalled car in the snowbank. Sometimes he starts the car for us, but even when He doesn’t, He is there. That is the only thing that matters. Who cares about cars and success and miracles and long life when you have God sitting beside you? (Peter Kreeft, Making Sense Out of Suffering)
The greatest moment of healing in my life was not when I stopped having anxiety attacks, or the first month I went without feeling like I was shrouded in gloom, or the first time I could say hello to a guy I wanted to know better without dying inside. It was when, in a time of distressed prayer, God took me back in my memory to the most painful moment of my life, laying crying in my bed, hating myself, my dreams going up in flames around me and my view of the future completely darkened, and showed me that He was there, sitting on the side of my bed, crying with me, and hearing my desperate prayer that I needed Him to love me, even though I wasn’t sure if He could. Even before we know how to love our own broken selves, He loves us. He’s there. He’s with us. He already died, knowing full well what you would turn out to be. There is nothing you can do, no one you can become, that will make God stop loving you. He came. And He meant it. He came FOR YOU.
We believe in a God who loved us so much that He came and died for us so that we could spend eternity with Him.
So when you suffer, even if it’s the millionth time in a row that you find yourself crying and alone, even if the darkness feels like it’s been there from the beginning and will never go away, remember this:
You who fear the Lord, wait for his mercy, and turn not aside, lest you fall. You who fear the Lord, trust in him, and your reward will not fail; you who fear the Lord, hope for good things, for everlasting joy and mercy. You who fear the Lord, love him, and your hearts will be made radiant. Consider the ancient generations and see: who ever trusted in the Lord and was put to shame? Or who ever persevered in his commandments and was forsaken? Or who ever called upon him and was overlooked? For the Lord is compassionate and merciful; he forgives sins and saves in times of affliction, and he is the shield of all who seek him in truth.
If you, like me, are struggling, go to the foot of the cross. Pour out your heart. Wait, and cry, and let the Lord hold you in His arms outstretched on the cross. Let your wounded heart rest in the Sacred Heart pierced for us. Wait upon His comfort, and let Him love you. LET HIM LOVE YOU. Let Him see and hold close to Himself all that you hold closest and deepest within yourself.
I know I’ve said this over and over AND OVER AGAIN. But each time, it rings with a little more sincerity, a little more clarity. Even if all we do is echo a truth until our very lives echo it, we’ve done well. And right now, that means stepping back from my ambitions, my new hopes and dreams, and allowing myself to remember that I still carry scars and wounds. Right now, it means learning how to live with them rather than shoving them aside. Right now, it means learning how to carry the wounds of Christ, to let my soul be His sepulchre, in which both His death and resurrection are reflected into the lives of those around me.
God bless, fam.
Three years ago, I still had anxiety attacks and often ditched my friends just to feel like I could breathe without choking. Three years ago, I still broke down crying every week and laid on the floor with music blasting in my ears to quiet all the sad thoughts running through my head. Three years ago, I was still hoping and praying my life would be short because I didn’t know how to cope.
Three years ago. There’s something that feels so distant yet so intimate about that. It’s so close that to remember still makes my heart ache, and yet so far that it usually feels more like a bad dream than a memory. I’m forever changed by the years I spent carrying these crosses, but I’m not defined by them. If anything, I think they just uncovered who I was all along.
Look, I don’t know what many of you are going through right now. Suffering is so much more than a single defining moment or the words we try to use to describe it. Deep down, really, only Christ can reach those hurts we can’t express, those unseen twinges and unspoken groans. Only He can really hold us right where the hurt is. Only the Holy Spirit can help us to pray with sighs too deep for words, as Romans tells us.
But the love of another human being makes all the difference. When you stop to listen, to hug, to laugh with or to cry with a brother or sister, it shows them it’s possible that they’re loved, that they aren’t doomed to be stuck in their own heads amidst their own tumultuous thoughts forever.
Three years ago, I poured out my heart, all my brokenness that I hated, my most shameful secret, and someone said, “I don’t care. I love you.” That has made all the difference.
I’ve said this before, I’ll say it again and again and again long after you’re sick of hearing it: I see you, I hear you, I know you, and I love you. Seriously. You. Reading this right now. I so wish I could hug each and every one of you close and tell you how much you mean to me. But I’ll settle for knowing you know that whatever your struggle, whatever your shame that you carry around with you…I don’t care. I love you. The God Who fashioned you died for love of you. I may not see your beauty and worth as clearly as he does, but I do see it. And gosh dangit, I want to show you.
P.S. I totally meant the hug thing. Seriously, ask me anytime for a hug. That’s my jam.
St. Raphael, pray for us.
The millstone’s falling now. A few weeks more and that distant whistle will be like the scream of a tornado in our ears. Everything is going to shatter; the walls of glass we thought would protect us are going to be smashed, the golden ropes that tied us together will be tested to see if they were just cheap wire all along, and the sweet sense of togetherness and meaning is going to be drowned out by a world that doesn’t give a shit about anything but flimsy green paper, fancy-shaped boxes on wheels, and titles that you can tack on to your name to make it go on longer.
That’s what getting ready for graduation feels like for me, anyway.
To be honest, I’m not excited at all. I’m just not. There’s nothing exciting about loss. Loss is loss is loss; it sucks even if you get a cookie afterwards. Nothing I’m being offered seems like it’s worth losing what I have. And yet, society will have its way or crush me in the machine of modernity; I can keep moving or get stomped on.
Yes, I know. “Poor you, your life must be so hard, having opportunities.” Having money’s great and all, but what’s a career compared to friendship, to brotherhood? Kind of a crappy exchange rate. Lose people you care about, get a way to earn something that stands for the work you’re doing so that you can even eat and have a roof over your head!
Honestly, there’s nothing I want more than for the mad rush of everything to just stop already. The people I love are about to get swept away in currents that may never re-converge with mine. There’s no time left to live, to love, to heal, to have a good cry or a good laugh. There’s almost no time left even to talk about it all. It’s all slipping away, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. That’s the worst part; it’s not just that I’m too scared to do something (which is the more usual case), I just literally cannot do anything to stop this.
All the wishing is killing me.
Bottom line, I’m not OK. I mean I’m OK, but I’m just not feeling OK at all. So I’m just asking the Lord right now to keep me going through all the stuff I just don’t care about anymore, to remind me that it’s going to be OK, even if everything I’ve known up until now is about to change so drastically.
I don’t know if anyone even reads this thing anymore. Which is probably for the best. Helps me be more honest. But I’m putting this out there in the hopes of letting y’all know, especially my fellow seniors, that it’s OK if you feel like this too, and I hope you’ll share that with me, because even though it sucks right now, I do still have hope that the Lord knows what he’s doing. And to those of you who are genuinely excited, that’s cool too; kudos to you for having that joy right now. We’ll catch up with you eventually.
For now though, I’m just prepping my hands and my heart for that pain of loss that burns like acid.
So there’s this awesome project that is going on this year, called The Common Year; search that or “Beauty in the Common” and you’ll find it. It’s basically a year-long invitation to find beauty in the everyday, to slow down and rediscover a sense of wonder for not only the magnificent but the common. Follow them on Facebook, Instagram, sign up for e-mail notifications–all of it. OK, plug is over.
Why is this so important? Because there’s a huge need in this world, and in a particular way in this country, to reawaken a sense of wonder.
Here’s the thing: it’s pretty clear our world is a mess. It’s just straight-up broken, with a lot of broken people (myself included) walking around half-asleep, hiding everything that’s real behind a screen, whether real or mental. Either we’re watching a YouTube video on our phones or acting our way through life like there’s a camera on us that just adores us. Life starts to feel bland after awhile of that; we get so used to the over-stimulation that real life seems to be dragging along. It’s difficult to face a world that feels like all its energy has been drained out of it. So we don’t. We cover it up with more and more distractions.
Why? There are a million reasons why a person starts to fall asleep to the beauty of reality–there’s something in it that is painful, the virtual world seems way cooler, cultural pressure–but it all leads to the same restlessness. But it’s always a half-waking sort of restlessness. We find ourselves either dragging through the mundane as it demands our attention or speeding through it just to get past it. Or worse, just ignoring it.
Chesterton recognized it in the 20th century man, and said the average man or woman of his age was just the same, trying any number of distractions and stimuli, no matter how abominable, to try and wake themselves up. “They are walking in their sleep and try to wake themselves up with nightmares.” And I ask you, is there anything so nightmarish as a man who does not see a homeless child because he is busy watching a video about homeless children, or a woman who has forgotten how to have a normal conversation because she is too busy taking pictures of herself to talk? Is there anything quite so horrifying as the thought that, after all, a world man makes on a screen might be more exciting or real than a world God makes of matter?
I invite you, brothers and sisters, be open to the beauty in the mundane. The easiest way to do that is to put away distractions and find some source of magnificent beauty, or beauty that is hard to miss, like a breathtaking scene in nature, or a masterful work of music that lifts your eyes to heaven.
It takes time to see beauty, and I promise you, if you do it right, it will hurt. Beauty pierces the heart with the two-edged sword of truth about our littleness, the grandeur of things not of this world, and the ways in which we have both beautified and wrecked ourselves and the world around us. Don’t be afraid of that; let it cut away the shell you’ve built up against reality, the shell that hides the real you. Stand exposed before the storms of life, and you’ll find anchors against the winds and rain all around you. Beauty has a way of showing up all around you if you have eyes to see it.
Then, once you’ve seen beauty, treasure that encounter with it, and reflect on it. Let it soak you with its truth. Write a story about it, keep a journal, or write a poem, like this one I wrote about this very topic. Tell a friend about it so you can ponder it together and enjoy a moment of closeness together. Find a tune that you think expresses the moment. Beauty ought to beget beauty, even if that beauty is simply the beauty of two souls uniting in wonder and awe, or a single soul moving a little closer to God’s heart through Mary, who pondered the mysteries of Christ’s life so perfectly.
Finally, give thanks. True wonder only comes when we are grateful for having encountered beauty. Rejoice before the Lord for this moment, and every moment like it. Let every moment of beauty come flying up to carry you into contemplation of its source in the very heart of Christ.
The best part is? This is exactly the same for beauty in the mundane. Beauty is beauty, wherever it graciously arises. You’ll know it once it’s touched you. Just keep your eyes peeled and your heart and mind open.
What was that, like, four or five steps? OK, recap: 1. Look for beauty in the magnificent, and don’t quit even if it hurts. 2. Reflect on that beauty and share it, even if it’s just with God. 3. Give thanks for the beautiful moment(s) and their source. 4. Repeat with all encounters with beauty, magnificent or mundane. See, just four! Easy, right? OK, easier said than done sometimes, but make a habit of it. It’s an awesome way to enrich your life, both in general and especially spiritually, and it keeps you connected with things as they are and away from the abyss of distractions that threatens to swallow us.
Keep walking, fellow pilgrims; don’t afraid to drown in the sapphire ocean of His beautiful love. You’ll wake up a better person for it.
P.S. Here’s one of my favorite choral pieces to get you started. Enjoy!
Once upon a time, I thought the hardest fight would be through my dreary and sad moments, the miserable downturns on this roller-coaster of life. OK, so that once upon a time was only about a year ago, but it feels like a lifetime ago, because life has been so different since then. God brought so much healing to my sadness and brokenness that I feel like my life is entirely new; I don’t feel like the same person. It’s like I finally came out of the chrysalis.
But the light of Christ…His two-edged sword of truth…His love that cuts to the heart…it isn’t satisfied with mediocrity. He loves us too much to just leave us at just “OK”. So after piercing through the lies I’ve been telling myself for years, He’s been piercing my heart right in the places where I shoved Him (knowingly or unknowingly) into the corners and blocked Him out. And to be totally honest, I’m disgusted with myself.
That being said, this year was unbelievably full of joy, of grace, and of opportunity. And I am so grateful for that. I’ve grown a lot, and made some progress in uprooting some nasty habits. I’ve made new friends, and strengthened old relationships. It’s been a truly positive year.
Now it’s gone, and here I am, full of joy but also really aware of how far I have to go. What now?
Back into the fray, of course.
Here’s the thing: that once upon a time, I forgot that there would come a time when those really intense struggles would be much less intense or even go away, because that’s generally how life goes; it fluctuates, up and down, round and sideways and backways and all the ways imaginable. Some stay in certain seasons longer than others, but everything is a season; it comes, it goes. And then there’s everything in-between. The afterwards, the mundane, the life-as-usual, that’s a hard fight too.
This life gets boring, long, stressful, wearying–all the lot of it, but not enough usually to tear us to shreds, just enough to annoy us but little enough to let us fall into complacency. It’s that fight against complacency that’s hard, and it’s that fight that I want to resolve to fight this year. I want to end old, unhealthy patterns and forge new habits, true virtues.
I want to start by giving myself a challenge here on this blog: I want to commit to putting out at least one prose and one poetry post each month, rather than whenever the fancy strikes me. I can’t keep living for the highs and the lows in any aspect of my life; I’m hoping that consistency here will aid in consistency in other aspects. So we’ll see how this new year goes.
I apologize for the incoherence of this post; 1:30 in the morning is no time to write anything, much less an actually thought-out and cohesive post (although some of my recent papers may testify against that). Part of me wanted this to be impressive; I suppose that Litany of Humility is kicking in a bit now. This is all for Him; He’s the one piercing my complacency with His love, He gets all the glory here.
I suppose this is as good a place as any to simply stop. May God bless you and yours abundantly this year, and happy Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God!
Optional Hymn from Today’s Morning Prayer
Mary the dawn, Christ the Perfect Day;
Mary the gate, Christ the Heavenly Way!
Mary the root, Christ the Mystic Vine;
Mary the grape, Christ the Sacred Wine!
Mary the wheat, Christ the Living Bread;
Mary the stem, Christ the Rose blood-red!
Mary the font, Christ the Cleansing Flood;
Mary the cup, Christ the Saving Blood!
Mary the temple, Christ the temple’s Lord;
Mary the shrine, Christ the God adored!
Mary the beacon, Christ the Haven’s Rest;
Mary the mirror, Christ the Vision Blest!
Mary the mother, Christ the mother’s Son
By all things blest while endless ages run. Amen.
Happy Feast of the Nativity of Mary, everyone! Mama Mary, please pray for me and for all the little musings I post here, that I, like you, can always point to Christ. Keep Him always first in my vision and my mind. Wrap me, those who read this blog, and all your children in your sapphire mantle of protection and peace. Amen.
What fools are we, inheritors of grace
and singers of th’eternal song. We string
our beads of love at someone else’s pace
and find our good intentions shattering.
We proudly stitch our garments, ’til the seams
are torn by lazy hands and frail remorse,
and carry tinder-boxes full of dreams
but hide the flint, and halt conversion’s course.
A fellowship of fools are we who swing
from Calvary into Eternity;
in foolish love our empty hands we bring.
Beloved, broken jesters all are we.
The greatest of all follies rescues us:
the shadow of the folly of the cross.
I found out today why I’m always running.
My last post, “A Thought About Farewells”, came from a place where I think my heart has secretly been for many years–hiding from the truth that goodbyes really do happen, that we cannot go back and reclaim the moments we’ve lost. It hit me like a brick wall this summer (while playing mini golf, of all things) that, no matter how hard we try, we can’t soak in every part of every moment that we’d like to. We only have so many eyes to see, so many ears to hear, so many hands to embrace. Things will be missed, and before we can try to grab them back, the moment will fly from us just as every moment has since time first began to turn its pages.
There are so many beautiful things about being part of a large family, both close and extended. One of the harder parts is feeling like you just blinked and suddenly the baby you were holding in your arms is toddling around, and the little tykes are suddenly going through puberty. The new moments aren’t bad, but the ones that are gone were pretty darn good too.
Moments just don’t last forever. And if you let yourself be fully invested in them, your heart is going to ache. This is the truth I’ve been running from, as time and time again I’ve come to love and then to lose.
Honestly, left just with this, I’d be crying myself to sleep right now. Which is what I did for years at the end of the days where I either hid from this truth in any corner I could or just let it completely overwhelm me. Truth be told, I’ll still probably cry myself to sleep many more nights in the future; it’s the price to be paid for letting yourself feel loss.
But if there’s anything these years are finally teaching me, it’s that this is not the end of the story.
The answer here is hope. It’s not a fix-it sort of answer; it doesn’t make the hurting stop. It doesn’t even really give a reason for the hurting. What it offers is something much bigger: a future where moments DO last forever, a future where there AREN’T goodbyes, a future where somehow a single glance at the face of God will quell every question and leave our hearts in complete peace and utter love.
The most marvelous part about hope is that the Holy Spirit gives us the first tastes of that hope here and now, in these fast-fleeting moments. When Christ came, He brought eternity into time, and now the Holy Spirit draws us out of time and into eternity. He brings us Christ Himself in the Eucharist to feed us as we walk with him through the moments of life into the unbroken joy of Heaven. The glory of our sorrows is that we are not alone in them; Christ has entered into every moment, every ache, every joy, every pain, and has given us the Holy Spirit as a promise that we will eventually pass out of all that is passing into the place where nothing passes, and we are in the very embrace of God.
I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. (Romans 8:18)
So we do not lose heart. Though our outer man is wasting away, our inner man is being renewed every day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, because we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen; for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. (2 Cor. 4:16-18)
What more is there to do but give glory and praise to God for loving us so unfathomably much? Not a drop of our pain goes unnoticed. We are not echoing voices in a hollow universe latching onto others and onto fantasies. We are beloved children, never for a moment left alone, always heard, always laughed with, always cried with. Brothers and sisters, we are loved with a love that is unlike anything this world can ever even begin to offer; every moment of every life is held in the hands of a God Who literally died for us, who pines for us always and will never stop wanting us to be with Him in eternity.
And if you feel that you are too far away, that this is just too good to be true, know that even in that you are not alone. I was not kidding when I said that Christ is with us in EVERYTHING. I know that it is not always easy at first to believe that God loves or even cares about us. I didn’t, for years; He had to prove it to me. And He did; He finally got through my stubbornness and my doubts. He found me after I said my first really painful goodbye years ago, and he cried with me. When I finally, flailingly, asked Him to help me, even though I wasn’t sure He loved me, He gave me the strength to survive and began walking me down a path that I never could have foreseen, a path of healing and freedom. And He wants to do that for all of us.
Ok, I know that basically sounded like an altar-call. Consider it a personal testimony to assure you that all the craziness I spout on this site isn’t really about me. It never was, and every post I’ve written that tends in that direction is flawed. What it’s really all about is trying to give an account, a reason, for my hope, hope that I have not always practiced. It really isn’t easy to choose, in every moment, to live as though death is not the end of our story, to love with God’s love so as to bring the God of eternity into time and men of time a step closer to eternity. But it makes all the difference.
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy we have been born anew to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and to an inheritance which is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God’s power are guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while you may have to suffer various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith, more precious than gold which though perishable is tested by fire, may redound to praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. (1 Peter 1:3-7)
Being the avid Disney nerd I am, it no longer surprises me when, in movies, within the first half hour or so, someone important leaves or dies; some sort of goodbye takes place before the plot can advance any further. Which means that Marvel movies have majorly screwed with me, because NO ONE IMPORTANT EVER ACTUALLY DIES (and if anyone says Agent Coulsen, you clearly haven’t seen Agents of SHIELD…spoiler alert…), so it’s like, “Goodbye–NO WAIT WHAT OH MY GOSH YOU’RE ALIVE”. And in retrospect, there have been a fair amount of movies, Disney or otherwise, that do sort of the same thing (mostly Disney, because typically there’s some sort of magic or prophecy involved).
But there’s one Disney goodbye that still haunts me and tears at my heart: when Widow Tweed says goodbye to Todd in The Fox and The Hound.
Because not only is that goodbye accompanied with Tweed’s reminiscences and a tear-jerker of a harmonica-led song; it’s a devastatingly final goodbye. When she drives away from Todd, leaving him alone in the woods as she cries, and he just looks after her, confused, there’s no question in anyone’s mind: this is it, the last time they’ll ever see one another. There is no sudden return to the way things were; the film ends with Todd looking down on his old home from his new home in the woods.
Now there are two quotes about goodbyes that I have wrestled with: that sickeningly sweet “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened” dealio, and a quote by C.S. Lewis that says, essentially, “Christians never say goodbye”. The first is pretty easy, in my mind, to question. It’s all well and good to say that we ought to rejoice in the good times that have been had, and there is no doubt that I look back with a (bittersweet) smile on the friends to whom I have said goodbye. And yet, when you stand before the ones you love, looking them in the eye and knowing that you may never see them again, feeling like your heart is being ripped from your chest, even if you can manage a smile, how can you not (at least internally) shed tears? How can you ignore that you are about to lose a person who has been precious to you? What greatness is there in denying to yourself that you will miss their laugh, their smile, the way they used to talk and walk, and just their very presence?
The second quote is less troubling, but still makes me uneasy. Essentially, the quote is recognizing the intimate bond we share as members of the Body of Christ, which keeps us always united no matter where we are, and is the source of our eternal union in Heaven. Still, even as we Catholics say to each other, “I’ll see you in the Eucharist”, even as our eyes of faith see the one to whom we have said goodbye in Christ’s Mystical body, and even as our hope tells us that we will see our loved ones in Heaven someday, isn’t there an ache? Can you deny that there is a hole in your heart where the other used to be?
Brethren, for anyone who has said goodbye and known that it was a truly final farewell, life afterwards is the life of an amputee. When we give another person a room in our hearts, we can’t help but feel the cold drafts through the open door and the cobwebs in the corners when they have gone. We have to go on living, knowing that we will never be the same.
That’s just it, though, I guess…we will never be the same. That is the glorious thing about our friendships and our familial bonds. The moment they are forged, we are changed. Love is a strange thing; once it enters your heart, you will never know a deeper ache, and yet every heart-wrenching moment is pure bliss, because you get to look into the eyes of the one you love. So when that terrible, inevitable moment comes when you have to say goodbye, and every part of your being is moaning for just another moment more with the beloved, we shouldn’t hide behind melancholy reminiscence or joyful hope, no matter how noble either might prove to be later. No.
When your universe suddenly seems as if its very light is about to be sucked away, when the air you breathe is about to be torn from your lungs, put every ounce of love you can into that last embrace, the final moment in which the one who brought music to your life pulls you close to them, letting your heart bleed out in one final, painful, blissful rapture of a moment. Then let them slip away, like rain slipping through your fingertips, burning like acid, and smile, because the tears that are sure to come mean that you have been lucky enough, in the few years of your life on this strange and beautiful place called Earth, to have met another person who entered into your life and you into theirs so deeply that your parting is torturous.
Finally, if you can stand it yet, say a prayer that you may both have the strength to go on to love again, and begin to find solace in the love of God, the one and only lover about Whom you can truly say that you will never have to say goodbye.
Make me unknown to me, myself, and I,
may self-pitying tow’rs that fight the sky
collapse upon my ego, laying bare.
O Mother, sweet and blessed, wholly pure,
within whose tender mantle now I lie,
make me unknown.
Slow, slouched, I wait for pity as I try
to battle inner wars. Oh let me die
to self, this secret pride. These shadows lure
me to demise. While I yet stir,
make me unknown.
“Broken beyond repair”. Part of me is always tempted to say that whenever someone asks that ever-stupid question, “What three words would you use to describe yourself?” It’s basically the way that I view myself when I don’t have anyone to tell me otherwise. I have my flaws before my mind’s eye often, swirling in and out of the crazy noise that is my inner life. It gets really loud in here sometimes, and it’s definitely not particularly pretty.
And I find myself asking “why” a lot. I ask myself why I’ve made such stupid decisions, or why I bother to try so hard. I ask God why He didn’t stop me from breaking myself from within, or why He made me the way I started out, the way that wasn’t ready for what life had to throw at me.
So now here I am, sitting at my family’s kitchen table, 21 years old, and not knowing how to move forward.
I’ve made it past some incredibly dark years in my life (or at least they seemed to be incredibly dark; I’m still trying to see that darkness as the shadow of Calvary), and I learned during those years how to just get by, to continue living while I felt wracked by a ceaseless storm inside. Now I’m on the other side of that storm, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to actually LIVE my life. I’m in completely uncharted waters here, carrying crosses I don’t understand and scars that haven’t faded yet, trying to take a step, any step, towards a future that is completely unclear to me.
So now what?
This past semester, it’s really begun to dawn on me that much of my life has been one long trust exercise with God. He set me on solid ground, then asked me to trust him as I was suddenly thrown from my footing on a cliff. For years I’ve been falling, but I realize now that that fall was long because it was always on the wings of the angel armies. Now that I’ve found solid ground again, now that I’ve become comfortable, God is asking me to trust Him again, and I can feel the earth trembling beneath me, and it sends my soul into terrified spasms.
But if I really listen to the voice that’s asking me to trust, I can hear the music my soul has been thirsting for. I can sense the lips of my Beloved murmuring peace to my heart. His arms are outstretched, and even now wrapping around me.
All that’s left is to have courage and trust enough to leap into the arms that have always held me.
The waves are rolling, my Savior beckons, and it’s time to step out onto the waters. Duc in Altum.
Impetuous, my lately love, am I
in letting love this fragile frame imbibe;
your sapphire eyes are water to these dry
and burning bones. I wish I could inscribe
your name upon my heart eternally,
but nay, ’tis not to be. You? I? My dear,
the love I wish for us can never be–
love? Nay, nay, but mere passion…fierce, I fear.
Dear one, may I yet stay, and love thee true,
with kindness, care, and groaning heart? Though strung
like harp strings, heart aflame, my song to you
shall be restrained, with few notes ever sung.
Unbridled though my yearning ever be,
I shall but love and let thy heart by free.