Until death do us part

My head whipped back and forth as I found a rare gap in the rush-hour traffic barreling down the road. I ran across the street and rushed inside the church, forgetting to catch the door closing loudly behind me. My fingers hastily swiped at the holy water font. I made the Sign of the Cross in one short, fluid movement. I threw myself on to a single-person kneeler, my forearms sticky on the back of the chair in front of me. 

I hadn't come to the church to pray. In the shuffle of cars that comes with having five drivers and not as many vehicles in the family, I was plunked there to wait for my ride. But there I was at my parish, in an unwarranted rush to the tiny chapel at the back of the church building, staring up at the golden tabernacle crowed by St. Faustina's Divine Mercy image. 

I silently launched myself into my usual pre-prayer routine of inadvertently thinking of all the incomplete tasks on my to-do list and simultaneously trying to catch my breath from my always-hurried entrance. 

As I tried to enter into a prayerful state, I became easily distracted. A window's reflection afforded me the view of a uniquely captivating scene. 

Behind me, a stooped old woman mightily traversed the church, struggling to push a walker that seemed nearly her height. Her feathery white hair framed droopy eyes, and her pleated pants, patterned with delicate white flowers, looked small enough to fit a child. 

She approached the tabernacle deliberately.

In between distracted prayers, I had been stealing glances at her out of my peripheral vision, but as she advanced closer I abandoned attempts to pray. I watched, enthralled, as she shakily parked her walker and grasped a chair. She lowered herself carefully onto the kneeler directly beneath the tabernacle. 

And there she remained. 

I knelt there in stunned silence. This woman was my opposite. She was a perfectly purposeful foil to abrupt, rash little me. Yet what struck me most was not her patience, prayerfulness, or contrast to me, but her steadfastness in the face of illness and old age. I was merely passing through this church, completely able to walk and kneel without difficulty or pain. She seemed almost a permanent fixture once she settled. Jesus and she were old friends.

I've seen this scene play out in dozens of churches, in many states and countries. The old woman might have been my one-time confessor whose heart stopped twice--whose multiple medical deaths did not prevent him from returning to minister the sacraments to the Church's faithful. 

She might have been the ancient man with huge, fuzzy white eyebrows who never misses a daily Mass at my parish. 

She might have been my grandmother, praying Rosary after Rosary to fill her days because she has the Christian hope and patience of St. Monica. 

She might have been the faithful deacon at my parish who never left the church after his retirement from work and his deacon's duties, who performed as an altar server nearly until his death at 95 just a few months ago. 

All these faithful and many more bind together the Body of Christ. They are the ones who, like St. Monica, pray for years for the conversion of hearts. They have been through years of heartache and turmoil. They have asked God "Why?" time and time again. They have encountered countless seemingly-unanswered prayers. They have seen children and grandchildren grow up and move out and move on from a faith that appears to them as antiquated as their parents and grandparents. 

They have used crutches, canes, walkers, and wheelchairs as their slow-moving vehicles of transportation to the Eucharistic table. 

Younger ones, like me, will flit and waver in faith. For all but a blessed few, it will take years until we find ourselves rooted in Christ and strengthened by the faith (Col. 2:6-7). We rely on the prayers and sacrifices the more seasoned faithful offer for us. 

Their sacrifice of love sustains us. 

Their example inspires us. 

"I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life." -Catholic Rite of Marriage

Let Me Go Back to Bed, Lord: Reflections on Today's Readings

I was struck by the readings at Mass this morning. If you have not had a chance to read them or hear them at Mass, you can find them here; I will be pulling excerpts below. 

In the first reading, we hear of the calling of Samuel. Samuel is studying under Eli, who has grown old and whose "eyes had lately grown so weak that he could not see." Thrice in one night, the Lord calls to Samuel. However, Samuel, being unfamiliar with the Lord, and living in a time when "a revelation of the LORD was uncommon and vision infrequent," thinks that the one calling to him is Eli. Three times, Samuel rises from his bed and answers at his name. 

Then, we hear the Gospel. Jesus cures Simon's mother-in-law; that evening, the disciples bring "the whole town" to the home of Simon and Andrew so that Jesus can cure their sick. The next morning, Jesus wakes to pray:

Rising very early before dawn, he left and went off to a deserted place, where he prayed. Simon and those who were with him pursued him and on finding him said, “Everyone is looking for you.”

Jesus' prayer is cut short by his persistent followers. The disciples spent the previous night bringing dozens of sick and possessed to Jesus for healing; Jesus likely had little sleep between the healings and "rising very early"; Jesus intentionally goes off to a deserted place to be away from everyone. Jesus is probably exhausted and in need of some private time. But here are his disciples, urging him on. Jesus could tell them to go away, but instead he recognizes that he needs to do the Father's will and, at this point, His will is that Jesus evangelize the surrounding towns. So Jesus does. 

I understand that Jesus is Lord, but he is also human, and humans become tired. In the first reading, Samuel awakes three times at his name. How do we feel after a night of restless sleep? Or, as in the Gospel, a night of little sleep? Certainly not refreshed and prepared to do the Lord's will! Both of these readings sing to me, a tired soul. The Christian life can be downright tiring. To do God's will is rarely the easiest path. This morning, as I dressed for a busy day of preparing for my return to school, I listened to the song Worn by Tenth Avenue North, which speaks of tired and heavy hearts:

My prayers are wearing thin/Yeah, I’m worn/Even before the day begins/Yeah, I’m worn/I’ve lost my will to fight/I’m worn/So, heaven come and flood my eyes  

The most important part of this song is not the lament of exhaustion, but rather the decision to look to Heaven in our tiredness. Samuel is shaken from sleep by Heaven's call; Jesus must relinquish his precious alone time, prayer time, to do his Father's will. I have a lot to learn from these two readings. I am tired, but I must find rest in the Lord. 

Worn // Tenth Avenue North

The Marian Virtue Project

Way back in September, I had a bit of fun creating this post on what I thought the "Marian virtues" were when I first heard of them. All gifs aside, however, we can learn a lot from Mary, especially through each specific Marian virtue. 

In order to learn about these virtues, let's talk about the man who first enumerated them: Saint Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort. 

Corn, Cattle, and Catholicism

I went to Kansas.

I thought about it for a while beforehand.

I told myself I didn't need to go, that there was nothing to do in Kansas, and that I had seen it already (while passing through on a road trip to Yellowstone). But the pull of Kansas was just too strong, so last week, I packed my bags and flew into Wichita, where I surprised some friends. 

And let me tell you, Kansas is fabulous. (With that sentence, I have given my sisters license to make fun of me for the next sixteen years, approximately.) I'll start by saying that yes, there are a lot of cornfields. And cattle.