Habemus papam

Messages flooded the screen, stating that there was white smoke at the Vatican. “Sorry kids, Anpanman will have to wait,” I said as I grabbed the laptop and switched from a video streaming service to a livestream by a Catholic news service. We looked at the huge crowd that was gathered and the clusters of cardinals that stood on balconies, a hint as to who wasn’t the new pope.

The days following the death of Pope Francis had felt odd; we were mourning the death of our father, while also knowing that sometime--probably in the near future--we would have a new Holy Father. The sorrow had mixed with a joyful anticipation. Now, the white smoke had shown that our wait was over. 

A man stepped out onto a balcony and declared: “Habemus Papam.” Tears sprang into my eyes. As my children chattered, I tried to listen for a name. I couldn’t catch it, but suddenly, there on my screen was a picture of a cardinal I had never heard of…from America! Moments later, that same man walked onto the balcony and blessed the crowd as peace flowed from his youthful gaze.I was stunned and ecstatic, and a thousand and one questions whirled through my mind. However, my kids had been waiting to watch their movie, to I started Anpanman and left to rest with the baby. 

Later on, slightly more rested, I knew that I needed to do something. How could I sit inside and field countless questions from my other kids about Pokémon or Star Wars when we had a new pope? I glanced at the backyard and suddenly knew what to do.

Life, Death, and the Year of Hope

When I first moved to Kansas, people told me: “If you don’t like the weather, wait a few minutes, and it will change.” I’ve heard this same sentiment in Oklahoma, too. The weather is unpredictable and constantly in flux. It can be cold and snowy one day—to the extent that the public library system closes down—and just a few days later, we stand outside in t-shirts, watching snowmen melt in sixty-degree weather. 

The changeability of the weather makes me think of hope—because if you truly don’t like the weather you’re currently experiencing, it’ll change in a minute or two. The cold won’t last forever; it won’t even last long. The short month of February always seems to contain both an ice storm and a seventy-degree day or two. Overcast, drizzly days don’t come often, and I know that after a few days of grey skies, the fierce sunshine will be back in full force. It's like life with small children. It's like life in general. There's darkness and light, gloom and joy, all smashed together in a wild jumble. 

My children and I were in the living room at a local home for the dying recently; it seemed like a fairly normal weekday. Letter flashcards were strewn across the floor, one child worked through a math book, other children chatted with volunteers in the kitchen. I held my baby up to one resident as we enjoyed watching the baby’s smiles and coos. Everything was peaceful, all was serene.

All at once, everything shifted. One child got scared of a (very gentle) service dog that entered the building. Another child made a mess and needed assistance in cleaning it up. The peaceful air was suddenly tinged with frenzy as multiple children needed me at once. 

A nurse dashed up to me. “How can I help?”

I thrust the baby in her arms and turned to the other children. Soon, everyone was taken care of and all was peaceful once again. A different caregiver walked up, holding my baby. I thanked her and remarked that everything always seems to happen at once.

“When things get crazy, I usually don’t even have time to stress-text my husband,” I said, mentioning that things seem to quickly bounce back and forth between chaos and calm. Little did I know that within the next week, I would see this reality play out in a dramatic way. 

It was late in the evening the next day when I received the message:

A flight from Wichita crashed.

Wichita? 

Tuesday Newsday is Overrated

My husband navigated our minivan down the long winding road that led away from the monastery. Our hearts and souls were filled with joyful peace from our time of prayer, and our shopping bag was filled with delicious treats that we purchased from the monks. 

Suddenly, as we drove into town, our gaze was hit by the chaos of culture: noisy cars, marijuana dispensaries, and billboards that cluttered the wide Oklahoma sky. 

"The monks aren't really missing much," I mused. 

Earlier that day, we had knelt in the dark immensity of the abbey's upper church. Amidst the flickers of candlelight, monks in flowing robes had filed into the church. I was filled with an overwhelming sense that I had stepped back in time. The monks soon filled the air with chanting, and as I joined my own silent prayers to the Latin chants of the monks, I thought about how small my problems really were. Yes, whatever problems and challenges I was undergoing were valid, but in the grand scheme of things, were they really that big of a deal? The cares and concerns of my daily life melted into the great stillness and peace of this monastery. 

That day at the monastery offered a chance for prayer and relaxation as a family as we hiked across the grounds, prayed in the church, and looked at the sheep and cows that grazed nearby. Yet, while our monastic outing was a good opportunity for prayer and contemplation, it also provided a good way to gain perspective. All of the stresses in my life and the culture seemed so small when I thought about them from the distance of the monastery. The choir stalls were filled with young monks, old monks, and young men who are discerning vocations to monastic life. These men spend their lives in contemplative prayer and work, offering life-giving hospitality to all who approach. Their lives are centered wholly and completely on God as they actively prepare for eternal life. 

A Education in Life

"You need to bring the kids over. Come anytime!" From beneath her white veil, the religious sister smiled at me and continued to insist. "Bring the kids over!" 

I knew that I needed to finally do it. 

When I had first learned that this woman had opened a home for elderly people and those near death, I was excited. The life-affirming mission of this home was beautiful. Yet, I hadn't taken my kids; it was hard to determine the "perfect" time to make a trip. However, that day after Mass, the answer popped in my head. 

"What if we just came and brought our schoolbooks?" I said slowly, turning the idea over in my mind. Instead of meandering home or heading to a park after daily Mass, once a week we could drive over to this home for the dying instead.

It would be, I realized, an answer to a prayer that dwelled in the depths of my heart.  

When we visited relatives last Christmas, I thought about how good it is to be with others, even if we aren't constantly doing an activity together. There's something reassuring and comforting about curling up on a couch with a book and seeing a couple other people playing a game nearby or watching a show together. Just being around other people, in community, is a beautiful and consoling thing. 

Rest and the Great Commandment

This scene has played out in my home more times than I can count:

I’ll be trying to accomplish something—put dinner on the table, take care of a crying child while other kids are asking me questions, respond to a month-old message from a friend—and my voice pierces through the crying and clamoring: “I’m trying, I’m working so hard, please just be patient.” I have a smile on my face, but the tension in my voice and shoulders quickly spreads throughout the room. I know that I'm on the brink of exploding into frustration. Sometimes, the dam breaks and my exhaustion and anger burst out into biting words. 

My husband’s voice calls out as he enters the room. “Do you need to go sit by yourself in your room?” 

Good man that he is, he sees through my attempted charade of patience and handles the situation while I dash down the hallway for respite. The overstimulation of the moment begins to dissipate as I let my body and my mind rest. Despite my best efforts, I struggled to patiently love others when I was wound up and filled with unrest. 

Just moments later, I am refreshed by my rest. I am renewed and once again can care for my children with patience and charity.  

While I continue to fall short of how God calls me to love, it always comes more naturally and easily when I’m encountering others from a place of rest and peace.

We often refuse to rest or even believe that we haven’t “earned the right” to rest. All sorts of excuses and objections fly up that hold us back from experiencing deep, healing rest in God. Yet, the more I explore this topic in my prayer and work, the more convicted I grow that rest is absolutely necessary for each and every one of us. While there are many mental, physical, creative, and professional benefits to regular rest, one of the most important fruits of rest slammed into my brain only a few months ago: Rest helps us live out the Great Commandment.

An Education in Clover

As my eyes scanned the neighborhood street, I observed the irony. The yards that some people fastidiously poured time, money, and chemicals into were barren. These lawns looked dead, lifeless, and empty. However, the other yards—those lawns belonging to people who didn’t pour time, money, and chemicals into them—looked very different. Overgrown with flower-touched weeds and bursts of clover, these yards were full of life. Bees hummed as they hovered above the white clover puffs and butterflies flitted back and forth.

In some yards, there was vibrant life—and in others, desolation and death. Perhaps this is too dramatic (a yard is just a yard, isn’t it?); yet, I wonder if we can learn something from a clover-filled yard. 

I look into my own backyard as I sit her in the dining room, and I see an ocean of clover. Each year, the clover has been spreading more and more across that space. This abundance of clover has brought an incredible amount of joy to our family. Over the past several days, my children have spent hours upon hours playing and rolling in the clover. The clover is deep and thick, in some areas rising well above my ankles. It is soft and silky and delightful. Joyous smiles light up the faces of my children as they play, and I join them in sharing this bliss. The clover in a yard is a gift to us--and it also is a gift to others. 

Life pours into our backyard, seeking out this clover.

Journey into Lent with Barbie (and Ken)

In the aftermath of a glorious battle that began with hobby horses and tennis rackets and ended in a fabulous dance sequence, an assortment of Barbies, Kens, and Mattel employees ponder the events of Greta Gerwig’s delightful film, Barbie. One of the Kens speaks to the group, his voice deep and resolute:

"We were only fighting because we didn't know who we were."

Throughout a series of wild adventures, the film probes the topic of identity. We follow Stereotypical Barbie on an ordinary day as she soars through her predictable, perfect life. She has always seen her core identity in being the perfect Barbie: arched feet, flawless skin, and a fun "girls' night" every night. However, when she discovers cellulite, experiences mishaps in her Dream House, and her heels touch the ground, everything falls apart. Who is she? And who is Ken, the blond guy whose job is “beach” and whose core identity relies on being Barbie’s boyfriend-but she's not that interested in him? 

Are the Kens supposed to find their identity and purpose in being subordinate accessories to the Barbies? Are the Barbies supposed to find their identity and purpose in being “long term, low commitment casual girlfriends” to the Kens?
Their confusion bursts into conflict: the Barbies against the Kens, the Kens against the Barbies, and the Kens against each other. There is no true peace. 

In order for harmony to exist, in order for them to experience fulfillment, in order for them to truly be able to love themselves and each other, the Barbies and Kens need to discover who they really are. Who they were made to be. 

We each need to do this too, don’t we? We need to learn who we are. Otherwise, our relationships--and our own lives--will suffer. 

The season of Lent offers us the perfect opportunity to do this. 

Source. 

"Unanswered" prayers

It was October, and I wanted to watch Overthe Garden Wall. There was just a problem: every single library copy was checked out or reserved for other people.

For those of you who haven’t seen it, Over the Garden Wall is a miniseries that follows a set of brothers who are lost in a dark wood. This animated show originally aired on Cartoon Network and may not seem too profound at first glance. It's dark and very, very weird. However, the story, characters, and themes are incredibly deep and ripe for discussion and reflection. The show is also perfect for fall time and Halloween, which is why I wanted to watch it—and why every copy was unavailable. (I know online renting is an option, but I didn’t want to pay money just to watch a two-hour show)

Then, at the very end of October, on the cusp of our departure for a road trip, I received word from the library: my copy had arrived. So, for the final two evenings of October, my husband and I tucked our sugared-up kids in bed and I introduced him to this weird, delightful, profound show. As we discussed the different episodes and characters, I was filled with gratitude. God cares about my desire to watch Over the Garden Wall, I thought. Furthermore, because this DVD came in just before a huge road trip, we took it with us and introduced relatives to the beauty of Over the Garden Wall. My husband and I got to watch this show twice in a week, and another time over Christmas (since it's a "Halloween show," I could keep renewing the DVD as long as I wanted...no one else wanted it anymore haha!). It was amazing. 

Soon after this, the temperatures began to dip—and I thought about cardigans. As much as I love cozying up in a hooded sweatshirt on chilly days, there’s something particularly awesome about wrapping myself in an oversized cardigan while I read, write, or take my kids to the park. All of the cardigans I had owned in the past had worn out or gotten donated in a move. The thought briefly slipped through my mind one day: It would be nice to have a cozy knitted cardigan again.

Musings on a broken butter dish

The glass jar was sitting too close to the edge of the counter. 

When I noticed that empty yeast jar, my mind immediately flashed to one of my young children accidentally knocking it onto the hard tile: a beautiful floor that brutally shatters everything that falls upon it.

I tucked my laptop under one arm and my opposite hand reached over to move the jar out of harm’s way until I could put it in the recycling bin. Flick. I accidentally bumped it into the butter dish. The handle of the butter dish—a little ceramic bird—flew to the counter, then slipped to the floor.

I slowly picked the shards up from the floor, shaking my head at the irony. 

All I was trying to do was move a now-useless yeast jar so that it wouldn’t smash in the floor; but I had to clean up shards anyway—and now my butter dish has rough, sharp edges. Really?

The path of joy is uncomfortable

 In the vast stillness of the church building, the Responsorial Psalm rang out solemnly from the pulpit: 

"The law of the LORD is perfect,

refreshing the soul.

The decree of the LORD is trustworthy,

giving wisdom to the simple." (from Psalm 19)

Again and again, the refrain declared: "The precepts of the Lord give joy to the heart." 

My thoughts danced around the 10 Commandments and all of the teachings that Christ presents in the Gospels. Yes, these DO give joy to the heart, a deep freedom from sin and the fullness of God's life-but do we let them?

Do we allow God to grant us joy and peace through his laws? 

The Tragedy of Mandatory "Sacrament Systems"

I remember how excited I was when I figured out that I could receive the Sacrament of Confirmation "earlier" than my peers at other parishes. My family had moved to a new state, and many churches in the diocese offered Confirmation for teens who were sophomores in high school. However, the Roman Catholic parish we joined offered Confirmation for high school students every two years--and it just so happened that I would be a freshman when the bishop came to administer this sacrament. With excitement, I tried to patiently wait for the day when I would receive this special outpouring of the Holy Spirit, as the Apostles did in the Upper Room (cf. Acts 2:1-4).  

I was ecstatic to be confirmed, and I was immensely grateful to God that I would be confirmed "early." In my excitement, naivety, and self-centeredness, I didn't even think about how tragic this was: that while I got to receive Confirmation as a fifteen-year-old, many of my friends would be deprived of this sacramental grace for another year. This was just "how the system worked." 

The "system" ("the way things are done here") decreed that the availability of this particular Sacrament of Initiation depended on what parish you attended. 

I had many classmates who belonged to parishes where Confirmation was only offered to sophomores, but these teenagers needed this sacrament just as much as I did. Why did I get the special privilege of not "having to wait" another year? 

The "sacrament system" at our parish worked in my favor.  

When you've grown up Catholic and you've seen things done a certain way for several years, it can be easy to assume that the way things are done is the one right way. If the systems seem to be working fairly well, we can just continue doing what we've been doing. We see no need to change things, so we don't. We attend Mass, celebrate the liturgical year in our homes and parishes, and we abide by the systems that regulate how the sacraments are administered. 

I've found that often, the people involved in the "sacrament systems" have a deep love for God and good intentions. Many times, these people have moved into a job or parish with no control over the existing systems that are in place. They try to do the best they can, with what they've been given. These people--both clergy and lay--offer a tremendous amount of their time and their talent to God, the parish, and the community. I am grateful for their many sacrifices. 

Unfortunately, there is a basic element that--at some point in history--went missing in our conversations about the "sacrament systems": A foundational examination of the Sacraments of Initiation. 

Word from a Hermitage: Rest

As I prayerfully spent time with Scripture on a recent silent retreat, I noticed a certain theme that began to bounce back and forth in my prayers, emerging from the passages I read. This word brought with it multiple levels of depth, and through it, God presented beautiful challenges to me. I’m still pondering the various ways that God touched my heart in those twenty hours of solitude, when the sounds that greeted my ears were the happy gurgles of my baby and the low moos of the cows that meandered up to the hermitage's fence. 

In this silence and solitude, I came to God in prayer. I brought names and intentions of many people as the hours trickled by. I breathed in the joyous peace of the hermitage and the land that surrounded it, and tried to listen intently, deeply, to the voice of the Good Shepherd.

A Living Church: The Blessed Stanley Rother Shrine

Our minivan chugged down the interstate and I gasped as the twin belltowers came into view: we were nearing the newly dedicated shrine to Blessed Stanley Rother, an Oklahoma farm boy who became a Catholic priest and martyr in 1980s Guatemala. Cries of joy and excitement rang out in the vehicle. After months of anticipation, we were finally here to explore the shrine and attend daily Mass as a family. My eyes began to well up with tears, and only continued to do so as we stepped onto that holy ground. The buildings and grounds were lovely, and the weather was gorgeous, but what choked me up the most was the experience of simply being there: The shrine felt alive!

There were people strolling across the plaza, people walking up the Tepeyac hill replica, people in the pilgrim center and its museum. People moved through the main church in prayer and awe before packing the chapel for daily Mass. 

In the ensuing months, my children and I have continued to visit regularly, and I am still struck by the life here. Even on days when we do not see huge numbers of people, there is still a unique vitality to the Blessed Stanley Rother shrine. From a married couple from South Carolina to Dominican sisters from Texas to the local families and individual people from the Oklahoma City area and the ever-present geese that wander the grounds, there is a sense of joyful renewal in this place.

When God works, can I sit still?

Each week, I find myself in a classroom on our church’s grounds. We often may think of classrooms as places where rows of desks clutter the room and where brightly-colored posters scream out from the walls. Yet, this classroom is different: A low table with a wooden figure of the Good Shepherd and his sheep sits in the middle of the room. A simple prayer table is tucked in a corner.

Against a wall are shelves featuring 3D models depicting different parables found in the New Testament. Along another wall is a large 3D map of the City of Jerusalem at the time of Christ, including buildings that the children can place onto the surface: the Temple, Herod’s Palace, the Tower of Antonia, the Cenacle (upper room). A simple raised map of the Holy Land stands nearby, as well as 3D models depicting the Last Supper and events from the infancy of Jesus Christ.  

There are “practical life” materials and an area with a model altar, a corner of the room includes materials that children encountered at their Baptism, so they may sit and ponder the gifts God showered on them in that sacrament.

This is no ordinary classroom; this is an atrium for the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd program. Here, tremendous prayer and lessons overflow into the hearts of small children and those of the catechists.

Keeping vigil

Darkness fell over the city as we brushed teeth, grabbed breviaries, donned our Sunday Best, and hopped in the minivan. Gentle anticipation building, we drove down the highway while praying Night Prayer. 

City lights twinkled across downtown, mirroring our joy and excitement. Soon, we turned onto a side street and saw the cathedral looming ahead. Rows and rows of parked cars met our eyes. We saw people exit and enter the cathedral continuously. We grabbed hands and ventured across the dark parking lot and through the large cathedral doors. 

We were met with a hushed awe. 

A Rule of Life: Daily Mass

I once wrote about the importance of prioritizing our priorities; of making the time and space for the different things that are important in our lives--even when those look different from the priorities and values of other people. In that post, I mentioned that my husband and I practically accomplish this through our Rule of Life (a basic framework for how we want to live). I thought it would be fun to write a small series of posts that dive into a few different elements of our Rule of Life. 

Today, I'd like to share one element of our family's Rule of Life: Daily Mass.

Requiescat in pace

The e-mail's subject line jolted out of my early-afternoon fatigue: The Death of Pope Benedict XVI. I wasn't surprised--Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI was 95 years old and had been sick, so we all knew that the end was near--but the announcement still hit me as memories began flying through my mind:

Of watching television coverage as he ascended to the papacy after the death of Pope John Paul II...of the ways in which he brought me closer to God...all the happy hours I have spent reading his books and encyclicals...of that t-shirt I used to wear that said "I Love my German Shepherd" above a picture of Pope Benedict's face...of the time my then-fiancé and I attended Pope Benedict XVI's final papal audience...of the following day, when we watched him fly away from St. Peter's Square in a helicopter. 

I remember the incredible gift of praying the Pater Noster (Lord's Prayer) at his papal audience. I remember the tears and deep emotions the next day, as we watched him officially step down. I remember speaking with an Italian or two from the area who felt bewildered and betrayed as they experienced a small amount of time without a bishop, and I remember the excitement and joy of Pope Francis's election to the papacy. And I remember that abiding peace, over the following years, of knowing that Pope Emeritus Benedict was continuing to pray and intercede for the Church in a hidden, quiet way. 

A Rule of Life: Monthly Confession

I once wrote about the importance of prioritizing our priorities; of making the time and space for the different things that are important in our lives--even when those look different from the priorities and values of other people. In that post, I mentioned that my husband and I practically accomplish this through our Rule of Life (a basic framework for how we want to live). I thought it would be fun to write a small series of posts that dive into a few different elements of our Rule of Life. 

Today, I'd like to share one element of our family's Rule of Life: Monthly Confession.

Alexander had a Terrible Day—and it's OK to admit that

Years ago, when someone gave our family a copy of Judith Viorst's classic picture book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, I looked at it askance. I could not recall if I had ever read it myself as a child, because the title itself went against a particular belief that was engrained in me:

A Bad Day? We shouldn't EVER say that.

At some point, I had absorbed the idea that it is wrong to call any day "bad." Every day is a gift from God, so every day is good--and saying that we're having a "bad day" is not expressing an attitude of thankfulness to God for his gifts. I took this line of reasoning to mean that I could admit to occasionally having a "hard" day, but I could NEVER admit to having a terrible day or a bad day. 

Unfortunately, this logic helped me cultivate an unhealthy view of emotions. If something sad, bad, or difficult happened to me, I would push it down, frantically looking for the gift and blessing as soon as possible. I needed to embrace the gifts that God gave me with a thankful spirit! I needed to practice gratitude!

Musings from a Parched Land

The red dirt was hard, compact, baked. Endless days stretched by as a heat wave crawled over the land. Wildfires sparked, garden plants shriveled, and the sparse patches of grass in our yard became brown and brittle. Large cracks and crevices split open our yard as the earth cried out for water, for moisture, for reprieve. 

And I thought of the psalmist's cry; words that I have prayed countless times as I've held my taped-together breviary: 

"O God, you are my God, for you I long; 

for you my soul is thirsting

My body pines for you 

like a dry, weary land without water..."

A few years ago, as I joined in the procession of people walking to receive the Eucharist at Mass, these words sprung up in my heart. I've continued to pray them often while in the line for Communion. 

My body pines for you/like a dry, weary land without water.