The Culture of Lukewarm

There's a phenomena that is very disturbing to me, and it SHOULD be disturbing to us all.

This morning, when Mass ended, as soon as Father walked by, a woman sitting a few rows up and across the aisle from me glanced over her shoulder, just waiting...and surely enough, she and her daughter darted from the pew, not even bothering to bow or even genuflect. And once this began, it continued, more and more people leaving Mass as quickly as they could, not even seeming to realize that the King of Kings was present, not giving Him another thought.

Maybe it's unfair for me to assume they don't know He is present, but then again; we tend to pay attention to those things we think are important. Is it fair to suggest, that, given the lack of reverence, perhaps people don't realize that Christ is Truly Present in the tabernacle? I won't say it's a deliberate snub towards Our Lord; the behavior of all too many Sunday-Mass-attending Catholics simply unfortunately suggests that if they have any faith at all, it is lukewarm and it is something they do not understand.

I say this because even a small understanding of what happens at Mass and WHOM is present is a life-changing realization, and the first thing we tend to do once we realize that Jesus is really there is to do things outwardly as a signal of what has gone on inside of us. As in genuflect, or bow, or make the sign of the cross. It may be small, and doing this might make us feel weird if we have had this conversion experience; for we might wonder what our friends or family will think of us if we suddenly realize that we've been ignoring Christ and experience even a small change in behavior that signals an even greater change in our hearts.

But, I have learned, it's not easy to be Catholic, even in a Catholic church! Those who actively pursue holiness are often regarded as being "odd" or "a fanatic" or even "holier-than-thou", a catch-all phrase that encompasses all the disdain and disrespect in the world. God forbid that someone receive that ultimate insult!

It is for this reason I question why people don't genuflect; is it that they don't believe or don't understand, or is it that they are afraid of being seen as "holier-than-thou"?

I suspect that the answer leans more towards the former, although I'm certain there are a great number of Catholics afraid to practice their faith outwardly, completely suppressed by the culture of secularism that surrounds them and tells them (and all of us!) that "faith is personal".

Yes, faith IS personal...and it is also social. For if the social aspect isn't expressed, then faith dies from simple disobediece to Our Lord's commission to us all....to spread the gospel. If we're afraid to even genuflect because of what other Catholics might call us, then how can we possibly take the next step and be willing to verbally proclaim Christ in even the most mundane ways?

We have a problem in the Church, and the problem comes from within, thanks to pressure from without. I learned a harsh lesson last fall, when giving a talk to people who claim to be good Catholics; "good Catholics" become VERY agitated VERY quickly when in a Catholic Church being provided with Catholic teaching by another Catholic. There is a VERY dangerous culture even within the Church that suggests that those who dare to believe what the Church teaches and follow what has always been true, and even worse, to PROCLAIM it, that those people must be silenced as quickly as possible.

The culture of the lukewarm is in charge. The "lukewarm" are those who claim to be "good Catholics" because they attend Mass "most Sundays and some Holy Days if convenient", send their children to Catholic school, support the school and church sometimes and if it's fun (and convenient socially!), but pick and choose what they want to believe. Because of their high status as "church-going Catholics" they also get to sit in judgment and gossip over those Catholics who spend more time working hard to BE Catholic as opposed to talking about or thinking about what good Catholics they are.

The Lukewarm Catholics are those who work hard to suppress any good Catholic teaching, for they have become comforted by the secular status-quo; if someone or something calls to their attention that they have to do more than just show up when they feel like it, they can't bear the discomfort. And, as it is natural to seek to escape that which causes pain, they first try to deny the Truth. When they can't deny it, they attack the messenger; for that messenger MUST be quashed! They seek to discredit, to villify, and will go so far as to outright lie about what was said and how it was said.

For, you see, the culture of lukewarmness must be preserved at all costs!

In reality, most Lukewarm Catholics aren't so vile; most simply disregard those things with which they have chosen to disagree, and refuse to be affected by what happens at Mass. They can't be bothered to sign up for Adoration, for...why would they? What a waste of time! To sit for an hour in the chapel in front of the Blessed Sacrament? That's for religious and fanatics!

And so they go about their lives, not even considering that they should be genuflecting when they arrive at Mass and when they leave...for they don't even realize Jesus is Present. They don't go to Confession because they think Vatican II "did away" with the sacrament.

There is only one way to TRULY fight the culture of lukewarmness...be unabashadly Catholic. Genuflect. Make the Sign of the Cross. Go to Confession...frequently. Let Christ into your life and your soul, and let Him change you. Quit worrying about what anyone else thinks...if they have a problem with YOUR seeking holiness, they truly only have a problem with a lack of their own. Ignore them and let them wallow....it's God's place to change them. It's YOUR place to be a humble example and place your focus on Christ, not your social circle.

We also ALL have the responsibility to educate ourselves; we all have questions. The bad news is that the Church is over 2,000 years old, with theology that goes back to the beginning of time. The GOOD news is that all of the questions we have, in reality, have been asked before. The most common questions are those too many people are afraid to ask...yet if they did, they would be changed forever.

There's a lot of fear out there among the Lukewarms. It's ALL ABOUT fear for them; about what their friends and family will think, about having to change, about those questions they have about the answers they think they should know...but have never been taught.

Catechesis needs to happen, but we have a couple of lost generations out there, adults running around knowing that they should go to church, wanting to raise their children Catholic, but having NO IDEA what it really MEANS to be Catholic! The result is a sort of spiritual paralysis as these adults struggle to live a life of faith in a culture that says faith (and life!) has no value.

Speak to anyone who works in a church; they'll lament the vast majority of parishioners who refuse to get involved, who refuse to engage in conversation, who refuse to attend events. They may be fine people, pillars of the community, wonderful parents...who have placed their souls in the backseat. Because that's what the world says to do. And so they show up to Mass on occasion. Or maybe they are the type to bring their children for the sacraments, and maybe for the major holidays, but otherwise, they refuse to darken the door of the church.

It's an outright battle for the souls of Catholics (and I know it happens in all the Christian religions) and those on the frontlines are taking a beating most people can't even imagine. How do we inspire conversion in those we love, those who can't seem to break out of the relativism and apathy that holds them bound? Some get ticked off and leave the Church if they are provided with authentic teaching. Some get ticked off and, through argument and discussion, eventually convert. Others simply disconnect and practice their faith with all the passion and understanding of a headless zombie.

I don't know what the answers are; I'm constantly wracking my brain trying to figure out how to reach people through the barriers they've put up, and even the most gently phrased teachings have placed me on the wrong end of a marginally-Catholic person's ire. And I'll do it again, over and over again, because at least anger is a reaction - anything other than that blasted apathy that grips so many self-proclaimed Catholics!

I can't help but think of the early martyrs, and all the martyrs throughout the history of the Church, even those of today. They were and are Catholics like all of us, but whose practice of the faith led and leads to death in horrible ways. They were men and women who stepped forward even as their bishops were torn apart by lions, and there, in the face of that reality, in that very presence, they were not afraid to declare themselves to be Christians and follow the bloody footprints into the arena.

Many of us fear the rolling eyes and deprecating comments of our contemporaries, and yet...our ancestors didn't even fear the ripping, tearing, bloody-gory deaths that came just from CLAIMING to be Christian. Never mind what happened to those actually CAUGHT IN THE ACT of practicing their faith!

I'm going to make a bold statement, one I thought I would never make, but I'm gonig to preface it with a brief exposition. Firstly, I can tell you right now our country is headed to hell in a handbasket called "secularism". We sacrifice our faith on the altar of political correctness, and we continue to give quiet obesience to those who desire to quash the voice of Christianity. When we do speak, we speak through the political arena where compromise is the game and the only definition of that word means "leave God's laws at the door". Thus, it is no wonder that the secularism of our culture has fed the lukewarmness of "practicing Catholics."

When I consider where we're going and the state of Catholicism in this country, I think that maybe the BEST thing to happen is for the charismatic political candidates win. Let them win. I won't vote for them, but if they win, I hope they bring about an even greater persecution of the Church. I think ONLY if the practice of our faith is punished will the zombic-majority be converted; when their friends are imprisoned for speaking their beliefs, when priests are imprisoned for preaching the gospel, when Catholic teachers are imprisoned for daring to suggest that marriage is between a man and a woman...then people will open their eyes. When the housewife next door is forced to send her children to a substandard-school that teaches things contrary to her values, or when the everyday-dad loses his house to legal fines for simply speaking to a group in a church somewhere about objective truth...when people can't go to Mass anymore because churches will have to close due to a loss of tax-exempt status, and the practice of all Christian religions resembles those of China....then people will convert.

I hope we get the leadership that feeds the Church once again through the innocent blood of the martyrs.

Do I think I'd be strong enough to be one of those martyrs? I don't know. I hope so. Because I think it's coming and those of us who believe all that the Church teaches and try to embrace it, and seek to preach it and live it...I think we're going to suffer. And maybe that needs to happen.

Nothing in this world is permanent; we are here in order to prepare for eternity. Let's get on with it!

Now we know...

Well, now we know where that hideously disturbing chair came from...



Thanks, Vincenzo!

Siblings

Growing up, my brother and I didn't get along. Apparently when I was born of course, he was very excited to be a big brother. But as we both "matured", he found that one of the greatest pleasures of "big brotherhood" was torturing his little sister.

And so it happened that I was on the wrong end of flying spiders being tossed in my direction, the recipient of a shoe-print to the face (although THAT was a bona-fide accident) and various other things. He was often subtle in his tortures, most often blaming me for things that he did, and our Mom, who should have known better, often fell for his expression of innocence while I was the one with the face screwed up in anger at the injustice of whatever it was he had just done to me in that given moment.

But over time, even as we drove each other crazy and had arguments, we also began to enjoy some of the same things, roll our eyes at each other's friends, and still find the ability to sit down and watch a movie together. Yet, I don't think we could really finally call ourselves "friends" until sometime in college, around the time our father passed away. Although Dad had not lived with us for years, and in fact, had been living out of the state for years, his loss changed the dynamic in our little family, and I suspect it affected my brother the most.

Sadly, though, although my brother lives in the same metro area I do, he's still about 45 minutes to an hour away, so we don't really see each other that often. Our schedules never seem to work out according to plan; if I have a weekend free, he doesn't. But his house has become the landing zone for major holidays, and happily, my dog is welcomed there.

Tonight, I'm headed down to visit him and his girlfriend. In reality, as he finishes painting his garage, she and I will likely hang out in front of a movie, sipping "vino" and chatting. Because that's what girls do best! My brother will be welcome to join us whenever he gets around to it.

Ahhh....family. And it sure is nice being friends with my brother; it defintely beats the childhood rivalry which Mom never did seem to figure out how to handle!

Lullaby

I attended the funeral of an infant this morning, the three-month-old daughter of friends and classmates.

This precious little baby spent months with us in the classroom as her mother carried her, and then, at three weeks after her birth, she was already sitting at the feet of great theologians as we learned about life, death, limbo, purgatory, and heaven. And she returned, making cute baby noises the following month, the last of our semester. She was so well behaved, so sweet, and we all rejoiced as she grasped and held our fingers in her strong grip, and for those who were blessed enough to have time to hold her...well, these are now just memories.

All of this passed through my mind this morning as I approached her tiny coffin, the tears in a waterfall. It occurred to me that this is one of the world's unknown Saints; for she'll likely never be canonized. Yet she is without sin in the innocence of her infancy, and she has received all the sacraments; she has gone home to the Father a perfect being. So as I said goodbye to her, I kissed the tips of my fingers and laid my hand on her for the last time, realizing that I was crying because, like everyone else there, I loved her, too.

Even during his homily, Father spoke of heaven differently than he would in a funeral for an adult; usually, he said, he encourages people to pray for the deceased, but today, he suggested it may be more proper to tell us to pray TO this little one for we know that she had lived to experience the fullness of grace available in this life.

He also spoke of the Cross, and what her life taught us all about picking up our Crosses and following Christ. He spoke of the prayers; for in the last several days people have asked him why their prayers weren't answered? They prayed, they fasted, they sacrificed, they offered Masses, they prayed novenas...and God allowed her to die. And yet, Father pointed out, those prayers were answered, although not in a way we can understand. God hears every prayer, and He responds to every one; there could be miracles yet unrecognized.

This child was, from the day of her birth, unified with Christ in a way most of us will never be; she lived, as it were, crucified, and her parents along with her. They were both crucified and kneeling at the foot of the Cross, knowing suffering, embracing suffering, always trusting in spite of the agony of their impending loss.

This is the second child they've offered back to our Heavenly Father, and yet, the parents witness even in their grief the hope that remains and the love they have for God. I spoke briefly with her mother, my friend this morning about the theology we learned in class, and we both acknowledged that although it's great to know the theology, it doesn't make the grief any easier. Grief is powerful, but as this family has taught us all, Faith, Hope, and Charity can overcome it, and those virtues were in abundance today from all sides.

The Cross may seem to be a folly to the world, but even in the greatest darkness, we can see the glory of it that draws us all to Jesus Christ. In Him we find our Hope, in Him we are granted Faith, and in Him we learn true Charity. Life and Death make no sense without the Cross.

Today as I gazed upon that tiny infant in a coffin that should have been a cradle, the brutality of death came home to me in a way that it never has before, even though I've suffered the losses of my own loved ones. Death was never intended; it is the result of the entrance of sin into the world, and eventually, we are all called to this brutal reality. But it doesn't end there; the Resurrection reveals eternity. Even as we spend our days in tears, we know we are not at the end and we know the grief will fade and become manageable.

I was grateful today to be present with this dear little child, so dear to God that He called her home to be embraced in his arms for eternity. And I was grateful to share the tears of her parents who loved her so much that they are willing to let her go, knowing that there is glory in suffering, and love is revealed profoundly in death.

Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine,
et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Requiéscant in pace. Amen.

Ora pro nobis.

Catholicism and the Art of Home Maintenance

So this afternoon, my dear friend Cathy and I went out for lunch and then she accompanied me to Home Depot so that I could buy a new toilet seat. Because it’s such a seemingly-odd item, I had to explain that she’ll be happier dog-sitting next week if the thing she has to sit on (when she does her own business) won’t mortally wound her. I would never forgive myself if my upstairs toilet killed my friend. The dog is fine...the toilet seat is dangerous!

For you see, the seat cover on the commode in my upstairs bathroom, which is a full bath, has one of those old wooden seats and it happens to be cracked. And the crack has gotten suddenly worse…using that particular toilet could be an experience no one would want to discuss especially upon a trip to the ER to repair the damage. Thus, the seat must be replaced.

Of course, we could not avoid the hilarity as we wandered the aisles at Home Depot, looking for toilet seats. At first, as we were unable to find them, but DID find a sign for “Restrooms” we discussed going THERE to get one. And then we, being Catholic, discussed the ensuing sacramental Confession we would have to make, having committed theft…of a toilet seat….

“Father forgive me for I have stolen a…a....toilet seat…..”

Neither of us could walk upright for awhile as we considered the implications of theft of public restroom facilities. And having to confess this sin. (Ironically, I REALLY had to GO at the time…)

So you see, one cannot be Catholic without our faith entering even into the most mundane of tasks...which, as I said, today involved purchasing a toilet seat.

We were not reduced to theft, however, for we found the aisle with the seats and so I was able to purchase one from my hard-earned funds.

Now, you would THINK that replacing a toilet seat is easy….RIGHT?!

But NO! You’d be WRONG!

It LOOKS easy…first you get a screwdriver and twist the bolts in the existing seat and lid, then once they are removed, you take the new seat and replace the new screws and anchors. NO PROBLEM!

Right?

No.

The screws in the old seat are rusted. Which from the exterior seems fine, for they twisted with no problem. And therein lies the problem; the screws turn but won’t come out. I tried prying the anchor with the head of one screwdriver while twisting the screws with the Phillip’s head screwdriver…still nuthin’.

I REFUSE to call a professional to replace a toilet seat! I am one of those people who SHOULD NOT own a home, because I’m completely helpless when it comes to tools and maintenance and the like. But come ON! A toilet seat? A three-year-old could do this!

I did give up for now, because I feared saying some words that would drive me back to Confession, which was so thinly avoided this afternoon when faced with the temptation of public-restroom toilet-seat theft. In fact, I may call a friend whose fiancé does home remodeling; he may have some suggestions as to how to deal with this problem.

I tried WD-40 already…it helped clear away some of the rust. My next attempt will involve getting out the duct tape. Because, as I’ve always heard, WD-40 and Duct Tape can fix ANYTHING…..can it fix this?


UPDATE!

My other dear friend, Fr. Schnippel, apparently is an expert both in Catholicism and the Art of Home Maintenance. So, although he was laughing hysterically at me, he provided some useful advice and, although I was terrified of spiders, I reached underneath the toilet and found the nut that was just letting the bolt spin. Ironically, the bolt that looked the worst was the easiest - the other bolt needed a blind dose of WD-40.

And I'm thrilled to report that I did not find any spiders...they apparently find the underside of toilets to be nasty and useless locations, too.

There's no word on whether Fr. Schnippel will hear my confession and provide absolution for the earlier temptation and the words I almost said earlier this evening.... I thought them even though they did not emerge from my mouth. (Although I hold that I would have been justified....)

For now, though, my upstairs toilet looks like one in Mexico; seatless. I took the opportunity to clean the area really really well and let any moisture dry before I install the new seat.

Yes, gentlemen...now you know why women REALLY want the seat down! Because, guaranteed, we're the ones to do all the hard labor to replace it, and thus, if YOU don't move it up and down as intended, then our labours (note European and Canadian spelling) go unnoticed.

So...the moral to the story is this: You CAN be a good Catholic and replace a toilet seat without theft and using bad language, and if you are struggling (with home maintenance) call or email a priest and he will explain how to fix the problem.

Summer

I have a love-hate relationship with summer. On one hand, it's beautiful as the world is so full of life and we are free to walk along the sidewalks without fear of falling on the ice.

On the other hand...

There is the heat and humidity, and once again, today, the humidity begins to creep up.

And speaking of creeping...the summer bugs are always apalling (although I'm grateful the June bugs have gone their way).

And speaking of bugs....even they are so desperate to get out of the sun that they have the audacity to fly into one's nose and make themselves at home, such that the unwitting victim of their insinuation must find it necessary to posture madly in all sorts of ways in order to evict the new and unwelcome resident, who apparently finds it necessary to tap-dance its way around the sensitive nasal passage.

Just sayin'

"Davenport"

When I was about six years old or so, my brother (2 yrs older) and I had to spend quite a bit of time at the babysitter's house when Mom was working in the summer. We may even have been a couple years older than that, for we were not forced to "take a nap" with the little kids anymore.

During nap time, our babysitter, Mrs. R., directed my brother and I into her livingroom, and further directed us to "Go sit on the davenport."

The what?

Mrs. R. had already begun to busy herself with something in the kitchen or maybe in the playroom as my brother and I stared at each other, confused. I was the shy one, but even my brother was afraid to ask the question. So we remained rooted to the spot, in the dining room, looking into the livingroom, trying to figure out what a "davenport" was.

I asked my brother in whispered terror, "What's a davenport?"

"I don't know. But go sit on it!"

I didn't move. Mrs. R. was coming back towards us and we were almost relieved, thinking maybe she'd figure out we had no idea what she was talking about and change the word. She didn't. She stared at us and with impatience said, "Well, go sit on the davenport! I'll be right in!"

We knew it was a privilege to join Mrs. R. in the forbidden territory of her livingroom, but she was a severe person and questioning her authority was not something that was done - by anyone. Even asking questions out of turn was bad form. It was far better to stand rooted to the spot than risk sitting on anything other than whatever the "davenport" was.

Mrs. R. was coming back again. In desperation my older brother said to me in a louder, more desperate whisper, "Go sit on the davenport!" Then he turned and looked expectantly towards the door, as though he had considered a typical question, one that could not get him in trouble: he was going to ask her if he could go to the bathroom. He was going to leave me alone with the davenport problem.

When she appeared, finally she was headed into the livingroom, and surprised again that we had not done what we'd been told. So she escorted us into the room and said, "I told you to go sit on the davenport! I don't understand why you wouldn't just follow a simple direction!"

And we figured out, finally, through her pointing finger, that the mysterious "davenport" was in fact the large couch against the wall, the one with the afghan draped on it. It wasn't the small couch (the love seat), or the chairs. It was the couch.

Our agony over, we were seated and although we never met another person who used the term "davenport" we were prepared for that particular survival scenario should that ever appear again. And my brother in fact, hadn't been able to get his saving question out about going to the bathroom, so in the end, I was not left alone to look stupid by myself.

So it was later that summer when on a trip to Iowa to visit relatives, we saw the sign for "Davenport". Mom couldn't figure out why we burst into laughter that lasted as long as we saw an exit sign for the city, or why we were straining our eyes (or pretending to) for couches that must be found somewhere in the city limits.....

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CAPTION CONTEST!

I stole this shamelessly from The Crescat this morning. Quite honestly, I'm not sure if I'm offended, scandalized, entrtained, confused, or horrified.



Captions, anyone?

The Eyes of a Child...The Eyes of an Offender

I’ll never forget his eyes, how they hid in his teen face, still childlike, terrified, questioning, and in complete agony. His hands were shaking as he spoke, seeming to transfer the fear to his very voice, which also shook. He was a nervous kid, from my observation, and found it difficult to relate to anyone.

That evening I was assigned as his “One to One”, a Staff person assigned to a patient who was in need of extra supervision. He was a fairly new patient so we were on a locked unit. At the time, we were in his room, with the door open according to policy. Also according to policy, I could not be outside of an arm’s length from him. The only time he could be alone was in the bathroom. At the end of this conversation, a male staff would be assigned to him as he’d no longer be able to go into even the bathroom by himself.

Troy* had accepted my presence with docility, and seemed to be a nice kid. He was soft-spoken, with a willowy stature that promised to eventually make him a tall man. At the time, he was maybe 15, maybe a little younger. His pimpled face betrayed his adolescence, while his eyes seemed both very old and very young all at once. Although I’d been working there for a couple years and knew most of our patients had experienced agonies the average person couldn’t even imagine, I’d never seen such pain before. It was almost hypnotizing.

As he was a new patient, and given his mild manners, I wondered how the other patients would accept him. Troy didn’t seem strong enough to stand up for himself. Guaranteed he’d be bullied, and if he wasn’t, he’d be one taken in by the bullies and “converted” to their ways. He seemed ready to conform to whatever the place had to throw at him, just as a form of passive survival. Troy was a wounded creature, and I was about to find out just how wounded.

I knew some; he had been abused and he must be an abuser because he was not allowed off the unit or near the children’s ward. He was a risk to himself and to others, although they weren’t sure in what ways, exactly, which is why I (and other staff on other shifts were assigned to him.)

Troy asked to speak to me in his room, and acknowledged the need to have the door open. He also knew that whatever he told me would be reported; this boy knew the system. I was on my guard, but he did seem sincere. He was near tears and the shaking in his hands became more pronounced. But I told him he could speak to me and I would listen.

He sat at the foot of his bed. I sat on the other, which was not assigned to any other patient. Consistent with the rules, I was in sight of the doorway and within an arm’s reach; the building was constructed with this in mind. I had a radio on my hip, out of his immediate reach, and the other staff on the unit knew we were there. Yet they could not hear what was said, so Troy could speak as though in confidence even though he knew I’d be making a record.

Troy told me, haltingly, that he’d been abused…sexually. Severely. He didn’t get graphic, but the shame was evident. He had told this story before and knew that we were aware of it, so he didn’t need to provide details. He even verified that I knew and seemed to take comfort that I did; for that way, he didn’t have to reveal the worst details. But that’s not why he wanted to talk. He seemed to want to lift a weight from his shoulders and reveal who he really was. He told me how awful the abuse was, how it made him feel, and how it made him want to die. But as he got older, he found himself with other kids, and he started doing the same things, compelled to do so. He hated himself for doing it, and even more, wanted to die. He knew he was making those kids feel like he had felt and STILL felt.

He had nightmares of jumping through windows, of hanging himself, slitting his wrists…everything. And he wanted to follow through. He wanted to die. He’d rather die than ever abuse another kid. He wanted his compulsion to end. And he would kill himself if he got the chance. Troy didn’t want sympathy; he wanted to be condemned and he wanted to die as quickly as possible and felt he deserved it. He said he knew he didn’t deserve to be abused and neither did his victims.

He was just a kid…and when his eyes met mine, they were direct; he meant what he said, every word.

Torn

I didn’t say a word as he spoke. I wasn’t surprised by what I heard, although I was moved. I knew I was sympathizing with a sex offender, but he was a sex offender who was still a child. He was both adult and child in the same person, and all I could see was his humanity.

He wasn’t a danger to anyone at the moment; he was on a locked unit and he was there for help, admittedly help he didn’t want for he thought his help could be found on the edge of a razor or in the barrel of a loaded gun.

I thanked Troy for speaking with me and telling me what he was thinking. I asked him if he realized what I had to do; he did. He would not be allowed to go to the bathroom alone, he would have someone within an arm’s length for as long as the powers that be decided. But he said he was glad he had spoken. Troy went with me willingly to the supervisor’s office to obtain the orders necessary to protect him.

To this day, when I learn of sex offenders, I am torn. On one hand, I think they are vile, they are evil, they should not be suffered to live. There are too many horrifying stories of lives destroyed and of brutal murders. And I worked with so many victims of those offenders; children…just children. Then, I remember Troy, his dark eyes anguished, both adult and child, and I realize that EVERY sex offender was once a child, and they and Troy share the same eyes.

I can’t divorce the humanity of the offenders from their offense. I don’t sympathize with their crimes, only their humanity. They were children once, too. They were abused, they were terrified, they were alone and they were destroyed. It was their destruction that created monsters they became. But within those monsters, there are still children that were so wounded they could never overcome the injuries.

And yet...others suffer because of them. Excruciatingly. Lives are destroyed.

Of those offenders that are not violent in the bloody sense, their actions are still violent given what they do the heart and soul of another. Some of them hate themselves, and still, there is no treatment.

I remain torn when it comes to the issue of sex offenders. People need to be protected from them, and thus, they must be isolated from the ability to offend again. Yet, they are human beings, wounded souls more in need of mercy than many of us. Not all of them are psychopaths, and we pray that their victims don’t follow in their footsteps.

I believe in justice….strongly. In fact, I tend to align more with prosecution than with defense, if given a choice. When I considered going to Law School, I considered that if I pursued Criminal Law, which was the area of the greatest interest for me, I wanted to be a Prosecutor. What stopped me? I’d have to spend time working in Defense. I did not want to defend criminals.

Yet my very life brought me into the position of defending those who have committed the most heinous of crimes…this very post is an example.

I also believe in Mercy; for I have been the recipient of Mercy, over and over again. I still don’t deserve it. I have also been a victim of crime. Yet…there is no Justice without Mercy.

We all need to find the balance. We all need to be rational, look at facts, weigh them carefully…and then we have to be careful not to remove humanity from those facts. All of our judgments in life impact others.

Maybe I’m wrong in this philosophy. But whenever I think of justice and mercy, I remember Troy and realize that it’s only by God’s grace that I never went by the same route.

God have mercy on us all.
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* Troy was a real boy but this is not his real name. Incidentally I don’t think I ever had a patient by that name.

It is Christ who lives...

I have no idea how many people are reading my blog. Not a clue. I don't have a stat counter of any sort and intend to keep it that way, at least for now. I'm not writing for statistics, or for popularity, or anything else. Sometimes I wonder WHY I write and reveal so much to whoever comes along. And so, sometimes I evaluate that and wonder if I should either finally identify myself or...quit writing?

Last night I had dinner with a group of "fans", now friends, (Hi, guys!), people from my parish. And it's odd to realize that real people are reading my blog, and know who I am. For years, from the beginning, SOME people from my real life have known my identity, so it has always kept me honest. But as time goes on, and I meet more and more people or reveal myself to more and more, I have to wonder...is it ime to let people know who I am?

But no...I think that would be the wrong thing to do. One of the things I realized long ago was that my lack of identity is an important component of this blog. Those who come across it, the vast majority of whom will never know me, can't form an opinion of the words based on what they think of me as a person. The average reader is forced to judge my words on their own merit. Thus, they can't make a judgment based on who I really am; they can't accost me anywhere and take issue with something I said, or conversely walk up to me and converse with me about how happy they are that I said X or Y.

There is a scripture verse that continues to come to me whenever I consider this issue: "It is not I who live, but Christ, who lives in me." (Gal. 2:20)

We do not live our lives for ourselves; we live for others. I think part of the purpose of this blog is an attempt to live for others. I've made a lot of mistakes and yet I realize that I am not alone in them. But God is merciful, God is loving, and He sent His only Son to bring us all Home. It's about that. It's not about me. Long after I'm dust, the same struggles of my life will be going on in other souls. They are happening now.

There are people who write to me on occasion to say that something I revealed in my blog was exactly what they were thinking and can't put into words. Or that my experiences parallel theirs. We as humanity are never alone; I think blogging, more than anything else, has taught me that. And it's humbling to realize that something I wrote had an effect on someone else...and they'll neve realize how those emails, in turn, have an effect on me. So often they've come when I'm about to take down a particular post or quit writing altogether.

One thing I fear; I think sometimes the things I write may give someone the impression that I am holier than I truly am. People who really know me realize I'm far from sainthood, and what amazes me is that they love me in spite of my very large flaws!. Please realize that the more "spiritual" or reflective posts that I write are often written as a sort of self-chastizement. It is not that I am living out the virtues...it is that I am lacking them.

And so, this blog will continue to be anonymously written. Yes, my glaring flaws often find the surface and become posts. Some of those remain up, some are taken down. There may be those who think taking them down is dishonest, yet I find that I must remember the focus of the blog. If a post on a particular incident is not something spiritually or otherwise edifying, sometimes it can prolong an incident. Comments or emails can keep the problem going, and so I've found that for my own health I must take down the posts rashly written and the cathartic venting must have a chance to die the death it deserves. Further, why incite others just because I can't rein in my own temper?

If I try remember that it is supposed to be Christ who lives and reigns in me, then my words here should be an example of that, and that should be the overall tone of my blog. No matter what, my flaws will show, and guaranteed, there will be "amazing disappearing posts" as I might think better of inflammatory words and realize how they conflict with my "mission".

We, as Catholics are charged with the obligation to bring Christ into the world, to build up the Kingdom of God, and to live as blessings to others. This blog is maybe my small mission, but there is one thing I have learned, over and over again; people do not come to Christ through massive speaking engagements. They come to Him one at a time, and sometimes, He asks us to be His hands and His voice.

My anonyminity aids me in doing this; if there are any words that have been good, the credit belongs not to me, but to Jesus. If I have ever offended (and I have), those words are my responsiblity alone.

The Terror of Motherhood

Last Friday I attended a barbecue at a friend's home, an annual affair that included her large family and many friends. While I didn't know everyone there, I did know many, and each year, if I can I attend because, even though I'm single, I've never once felt "left out" of anything. Most of the attendees are families, and even as I sat at a table, I was much hugged and greeted by those just arriving, adults and children alike. At these gatherings, it never seems to matter if a few of us are single; we are made to feel like a part of their own family and so it's a comfortable place to be.

But there is one moment that I continue to ponder, and that makes me realize how much I need a Spiritual Director as I move on with my own vocational discernment.

One of my friends (who was at the barbecue) recently had a baby, a dear little girl, and I have now twice proudly held her, so happy for my friend! I have another friend who, maybe a year ago, lost her unborn little one, the first conception she was aware of although she's been married for several years now. She suffers from a genetic disease, nothing apparent from the outside, but I know that this disease concerns her for every pregnancy would be high-risk for her. I don't know how widespread is the knowledge of their loss, but on Friday, I couldn't help but remember her pain when someone commented that she and her husband were "the ones they were waiting for."

She didn't say anything, just smiled, and I know they want children, and I ached for her, knowing what she's suffered and what she fears. But she answered graciously if diminuitively, and from that point, my own thoughts wandered a bit.

Even as we observe the pain and the joys of our married friends, we as single people are on the margins. It is not that we don't revel in their wonders and grieve with them. Rather, it is that we are not a part of "the club". Any club. And as much as they do to make us feel like family, we as single people will always be on the outside looking in. It's the reality of our lives, simple as that. I'm neither happy nor sad, although maybe it seems a little bittersweet to me.

As others were joking with my friend about the child we are all waiting for, I happened to catch upon their wording. "you're the last one." I realized I wasn't even in the running. It wasn't that I was being ignored; far from it! I am not married, and this is a wonderful group of Catholic families, and we all believe the same thing; that children come after marriage. (To be certain, this group would also be supportive of unmarried mothers and rejoice in the children...we are also a VERY pro-life crowd!) . Yet, in the natural order of things, the banter with my friend was gentle, not demanding or rude. It was banter among friends, among married friends who know the lingo and the questions. And it was beautiful.

But it was a moment to be captured for me, as I realized I was not a part of it and may never be. I am an unmarried woman and I have a sense that no one will EVER ask me that question and I might never have a child of my own.

And I'm going to say something shocking..the idea isn't really that disturbing to me. Bittersweet...but I can't decide if it's more bitter or sweet.

Is the Past the Past?

As a little girl, I used to talk about what I would be like as a mother. I played with dolls, but as I got older, it wasn't babies I wanted, rather, I wanted to be a hero. My childhood fantasies were never about abandoning motherhood, although as I got older, I didn't think of motherhood; I thought of a career. Even as I began my working life by serving in child care and I did love children,I did not see myself as a mother. During college I worked in adolescent psych, and it was there that I decided motherhood was not for me; the kids there, from children (5 and up to around 23) were so messed up, and I got so beat up verbally, emotionaly, and physically in that job that I decided I would never have children.

I was terrified I'd mess them up just as much as those I served. And I think I hated the parents who had done so much to wreck the human beings they had brought into the world. I could not be something I hated.

But there was another dimension, something I haven't often voiced; the very idea of childbirth is abhorrent to me. It's awful. I'd rather be disembowled (even though the experience is similar). I'm not sure where this fear came from, but there it is. I had it LONG before I took an EMT class back in 1998 in which I cringed in my seat as we watched a few births. I was a puddle on the floor, and my instructor took note. I was otherwise a star student; give me anything, I could handle it...blood, guts, and eyeballs, I could give the textbook treatment. Give me the textbook births, I could cringe and recite the facts, but give me the reality...? That's what my instructor did as our class practiced scenarios. My fear was obvious to everyone. Mothers in the class tried to help me, to no avail...I decided that children and childbirth weren't worth it. Yet, I knew that one day I could be called upon to help a woman in labor; I knew I needed the facts but I never wanted the experience.

And yet...I belived, even though I wasn't a practicing Catholic, that children were a gift. I believed in life. Even as I practiced death, both professionally and personally in my relationships.

For awhile, there was a man I thought I wanted to marry, and I was at my turning point; I knew I was Catholic and wanted to come Home. That also meant that I wanted to be married in the Church, and I had to be "open to life". I was struggling with a number of issues, and my boyfriend was not interested in going to church, although he was interested in learning about what I believed. I think God used him to help me in my own questions, and made me ask...am I willing to give in to my greatest fear in order to live life with this man I think I love?

I decided I'd have a child with and for him, and trust God to get me through it. Because, rationally, woman have been doing this for millenia...who was I to have such a stupid fear?

Yet it was not to be...not with him, maybe not ever.

When I returned to the Church, for a short time I had a Spiritual Director, and while I never confessed my DEEPEST fears, I did share with him my hesitancy about children, around the time I confessed I thought I was called to religious life.

This priest told me that one must be called to motherhood and religious life both; meaning that good Sisters and Nuns are ALSO good mothers. You can't hate children and be a good mother to anyone. You can't hate children and be a good priest. It was across the board; he wasn't picking on me.

And his words have not left me. I still wonder about them. I've grown, and no, I don't hate children. I think they're wonderful. And the idea of labor...well, it's not pleasant, but knowing about redemptive suffering helps a great deal.

Yet...I don't think I'm called to motherhood. I have a sense that I will never be married, but I'm not sure I'm called to religious life, either. I look at different communities and consider their lives, especially given that I work in a church. But none of it attracts me. This afternoon I realized that I love my solitude, yet it doesn't fulfill me.

I love the idea of marriage and being married, and I'm willing to accept all that goes with marriage. But I have to wonder if I'm still romanticizing marriage? I know that our lives here are only temporary. There is no marriage in Heaven.

Yet, then I consider religious life; nothing really attracts me. I am attracted, like marriage, to the IDEA of religious life, and think it beautiful. Yet it still involves something foreign to me; life with other people; people you can't get away from. And maybe assignments that one cannot refuse.

The community I visited for prayer and do intend to visit for a weekend could send me to a parish or a school or a nursing home...and I won't have a say in where I go. Will I be happy? Knowing that, really, I'm not fulfilled even where I am? Am I too set in my ways? Am I fit for such a life? Can I be obedient or has my life of survival-oriented philosophy destroyed my ability to conform to a community of any sort?

I'm in a tough position...I like children, but I don't feel that "biological clock" ticking away. Just a small sadness that no one will ever ask to see my child. And I look at religious life, rapidly passing me by as more and more communities are eliminated the older I get, and I hear the echo of the priests words; that I must be a Mother even to be a Sister.

Does my lack of desire for motherhood destroy the potential vocation to consecrated life?

The odd thing is, that in vocational discernment, one knows they are giving up one thing for another. I'm giving up nothing, and it's paralyzing me.

I have nothing to sacrifice.

It's not a sacrifice to give up motherhood when I don't really feel called to it and haven't since I was a child and considered it the only option in life.

It's not a sacrifice to give up religious life when I'm not sure it's where I belong, anyway, or if I could handle it.

It's not a sacrifice to give up the single life, because I don't live it like "Sex in the City" anyway, and I don't think I'm fulfilled in this state even as I do live it out. I don't at all feel called to be a "Consecrated Virgin". And don't mention Regnum Christi..I won't discuss it.

Yet this year, I was told I was a mother, by a woman who is a grandmother. And in the next moment, congratulated by a mother with a few of her own, for the children I don't have but "might" in the future.

What's really sad is that I know my agony is not my own; it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to an entire collective of disenfranchized women who have grown up in an atmosphere of hatred towards motherhood, hatred of holiness, and hatred of anything other than self-fulfillment through temporal means.

I haven't found happiness in this world, it doesn't exist in this world, and yet...we know we belong in this world because God brought us into being. How can we find where we really belong? We are not a sum of our dysfunctional families, but as I pointed out to a Sister I spoke with today...how do we know God's will when the foundation He established has been destroyed for so many of us? How do we know where we belong when nothing seems to fit?

How do we answer a call we can't hear because we don't know the language?

How can we overcome cultural indoctrination that has destroyed the foundation that is supposed to build us up?

*

Can you hear the echoes of the culture of fragmented family reverberating between the walls of objective reality? Is it any wonder so many souls have been and continue to be shattered by a culture that seeks only itself to the detriment of our own humanity?

Blogs of our Lives - Episode 6 - The Blog and the Blogiful

When we last left off, we were discussing a nun headed to a cloister juxtaposed against trashy sex with aliens, which is apparently a hot topic for college theology professors these days.

But today, we start with Desperate Irish Housewife, who is learning Spanish and whose daughter met an Anchovy. Said daughter advances the idea that the Anchovy spoke to her and explained that he didn't believe in God, nor does his mother. Who knew that pizza condiments could speak? And one would think that any creature about to be baked into cheese on a slab of bread and tomato sauce would be forced into SOME acceptance of a hereafter. But apparently anchovies aren't too bright (which expains how they end up on pizzas...). But really, we must ask...who IS that anchovy, REALLY?! And is he as desperate as the housewife?

From anchovies to absent...uh...fish...we go to a little corner of Chicago, where, regrettably, Ma Beck has handed in her resignation. Her farewell post went up on Monday, May 26, and to this day we mourn her loss to the world of the ever-turning blogs. But her memory cannot go unremembered, and her blog, unread. The words remain, even as the woman behind them as fallen silent, taken back into the life outside of the cyber age. Fare thee well, dear friend!

(Stage Direction:
Moment of silence for the lost blogger.... Taps begins to mournfully sound...)

Moving on to those who still walk among the blogs, we find the Curt Jester, lively as always! He first points out the lack of logic and continued defiance on the part of the "Women's Ordination" crowd, which, it must be observed, is very much akin to the rhetoric used by drunk drivers or even speeders when they are caught and must accept the consequences of their poor choices. (They love to claim "entrapment", quite indignantly, avoiding the entire concept of their own behavior and decisions leading them into the radar of the authorities). The good man also points out the only Mass translation that will make the US Bishops happy, and suggests that we all become very comfortable with Dick and Jane, for, clearly, American Catholics must be idiots as must be any of the clergy below the level of bishop. So...Dick and Jane untie! Uh...I mean...UNITE! (Which wrod is rite?)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Adrienne is mowing her lawn, which is a great rest after hosting this week's Catholic Carnival! (Although, seriously...who knew she was a cat?! Wow!) Way to go Adrienne...such a good kitty, such a good kitty to type and mow the lawn! Would ums like some catnip? Sure! Sure ums would! Good Adrienne! Such a sweet kitty...such an aggressive kitty when cutting the grass!

Oh...ahem...excuse me...I uh...let's move on...

Here in Minnesota, the infamous ironic professor announces the group that is left behind and out of this summer's activities, and is working to advance World Old Day! She also brings us a story about a parish that gave up the ship and began worshipping the flag on the 4th of July, scandalizing many, bringing others to indescribable patriotic ecstasy. We must ask...last time, the good professor explained that her field of study was trashy sex with aliens...but now, is she working on another field? Old people and idolatry? (She should interview Curt Jester...he's got great research material for her...)

And what of the nun headed to the cloister? As it turns out, Mary Gibson of Veritatis Splendor was indeed blessed and in love with Jesus Christ and entered the Benedictines of Mary, Queen of Apostles, on June 11, where she joins the ancient ranks of women who have always upheld the Church by living a hidden life of prayer and sacrifice for the sanctity of souls. She will be praying especially for priests, and in turn, needs the prayers of all of us for her and her intentions.

Speaking of priests and religious...

We next go to Cleveland, on a more serious note, where Father V. has become pastor of his own parish and discusses the return to communion on the tongue and rules for seminarians back in 1947. Having recently lost his own father, he also posts his homily from the funeral Mass, words that will surely warm the hearts of all those who have loved ones who struggle in the throes of disbelief. Please remember Fr. V., his father, and his family in your prayers.

Next we move on to the joyful news brought by another priest, Fr. Schnippel of Called by Name. When we last left him, he was building an ark, but now, he is extolling the beauty of new life given to two families close to him. Read more for the update! And further, he praises the courage of the Chinese Martyrs, whose feast we celebrated yesterday. In the good Father's words, "Would that we all had the same courage and conviction as this young man."

Amen, Padre. And it's still happening in China even as we speak, and all over the world.

And what of the Brothers and Sisters of Perpetual Discernment? They've been quiet lately...what's going on? Most people don't realize, because the rest of the world seems to shut down in the summmer for "vacation season" that this is when the Church really ramps up. It's not certain that even Pastors and Parish Administrators realize what's going on, between Mission Trips, Vacation Bible Schools, and other youth events, how thinly stretched are their staff in these hot and humid months. Even as the corridors of the Catholic schools fall silent, the same children and youth are learning about how to live for Christ through various summer activities, most not held within the walls of a church or school. But have no fear...the Brothers and Sisters of Perpetual Discernment have come to the rescue of their local parishes, and with hilarious results! It seems the Monastery still doesn't have a new name, Sister Caprice is as confused as ever, and Brother Gus is, as usual, up to his regular tricks. Brother Brit seems close to a decision, and Sister Perpetua seems to have found her style and has red hair.

What will happen to the perpetual discerners? Will they ever learn to discern, or will their hectic summer schedule keep them from discovering God's will for them?

Speaking of God's will....

The Recovering Dissident is on a hiatus and wants to be alone, but took a break from her break to ask that we pray for the return of valuable Church artifacts that were stolen from Archbishop Nienstedt on the weekend he was in Rome, receiving the pallium.

In the world of Catholic blogging, life goes on, ranging from the tragic to the heartbroken to real crimes, to the most joyful of events. These blogs of our lives reveal the hearts of real people living the faith with humor and grace in a world that has gone mad...or is it WE who have gone mad...?

Until we meet again, this has been another episode of....Blogs of Our Lives...


(Ending credits and music....Ave Maria....gratia plena.)

Beer and St. Thomas Aquinas

Father Schnippel has posted a wonderful blessing for beer. Yes, beer. Mmmmmmmm...beeeeer. But the Thomist in me wonders...is a beer blessing... um...kosher? Can beer be blessed? So, since this blog is in need of levity, humor, and wit, and something for the geek, too, well, I've researched and researched and have discovered this little-known clip of the Summa Theologica that apparently was left on the editing-room floor. It was found near one of the quashed records from the early Church that proved the authorship of the Gospels (in addition to the writings of the Early Church Fathers), so, given the state of modern "Catholic" scholarship today, it's no surprise that we don't often hear of the ancient blessing of beer. So, without further ado, here's a little artifact for all you Thomists out there; let your soul be refreshed...and let temperance be your guide!


Whether the blessing of beer is proper and can be justified?

Objection 1. It would seem that the impropriety of blessing the intoxicating liquid commonly called "beer" should be obvious to one and all who aspire to living a life of sanctity. As beer can be quickly intoxicating and thus eliminate the inhibitions of properly-sober persons, the action of "blessing" the beer would seem to give license not only to intoxication, but also to limited mental faculties that lead one into sin.

Objection 2: Further, blessing beer creates a temptation and an occasion of sin. When sober, a man has the use of full reason consistent with his intellectual capacity, however, the use of beer can diminish what reason he possesses. In the diminishment of reason, one may determine that something otherwise considered to be sinful would in fact be pleasent and "good", and thus, the beer would have lead said person down a path away from reason and towards sin. Such a thing is a temptation and thus the blessing can be termed to be "an occasion of sin."

Objection 3: Further, beer is a beverage not consumed at holy events, but in bars, backyard barbecues, and keg parties for the sake of imbibing great quantities for the intended purpose of intoxication. It should not be imbibed at all, and other intoxicating liquids should also be avoided for one trying to live a life in God's grace.

Objection 4: It is scandalous to the faithful to bless beer.

On the contrary, It is written (Jn 2:3) "When the wine failed, the mother of Jesus said to him, 'They have no wine'". Even further, it is written in reference to the 30-gallon jars meant for ritual purification, that they be filled to the brim. In this, the first miracle of Jesus (Jn 2:7), Jesus changed that water into wine for the feast, and He provided a quantity fit to intoxicate a crowd of their own volition. Thus we see that although the scriptures mention abundant wine, they do not mention beer.

I answer that, beer was not an ingredient of celebration in biblical times, however that does not imply that the invention of it is ungodly, only different but similar in effects to the predecessor which was wine.

Reply to Objection 1: Good beer was created from earthly ingredients freely given by God for this purpose. Good beer was created from especially tasty elements and was designed not for embarassing consumption but to be sipped in fellowship and enjoyed as with a good wine. The intoxicating properties are limited through the virtue of the one who consumes the beverage. Beer consumed in proper amounts does not inhibit the life of sanctity.

Reply to Objection 2: As in the reply to Objection 1, although beer can be a temptation to sin by some, it is not a temptation to sin for all. I further answer that food can be a temptation for some, but that does not inhibit our need to ask God to bless our food. To argue that beer cannot be blessed because it may be a temptation and occasion for sin is fallacious; for that point to be true, those who are tempted to gluttony must not have their meals blessed, if they eat at all! Thus, blessing beer does not enter one into an occasion of sin.

Reply to Objection 3: I answer that beer is also consumed at fine meals and at family events, taken with food, and limited in quantity. Just as wine with dinner is not automatically drunk to intoxication, thus is beer. Beer is no different from wine in this regard. To argue against blessing beer is to argue against allowing wine to be blessed with the meal. Jesus himself consumed wine at Passover and had beer been created, he would likewise have consumed beer. Yet we do not read of Christ and his Apostles drinking to intoxication at the Last Supper.

Reply to Objection 4: It would seem that it is NOT scandalous to bless beer. As we also bless food and consume it, thus we must also bless beer to be consumed with the food, for its elements too, are gifts from God, as are our friends and family. It must be observed that the blessing must call to mind right use of those gifts, which further enables us to focus on the virtues of temperence and charity, while unblessed food or beer could lead us to treat those gifts and ourselves callously. Thus, we see that the blessing of beer would not only be spiritually advantageous, but could, in fact, draw one into a closer union with God through the increased virtue inspired by the blessing. Especially if the blessing is stated in Latin.

Further, the only thing that would cause the blessing to be scandalous would be if the priest blessed the beer and then refused access to the rest of the present faithful.

Moving On...

I've made some decisions today:

First, a decision I made this morning is that I will not be pressing charges because it would be pointless. However, should the need to do so arise, I have evidence and can move forward. There is great freedom in this.

Secondly, I have affirmed the decision to file a police report, for had I not, I would not now be indemnified (which I have been via the company itself), and for my own protection should this happen again. I can't afford to pay for the cost of someone else's actions or to be held accountable for said person's actions. My documentation protects my rights and I'm satisfied with that.

Thirdly, I'm removing the posts; I can't move on past the situation if I'm responding to comments of any kind. So the posts with regard to the actions of the last 24 hours are gone, I'm going to Confession and Mass tonight, which is what I seem to do on most Tuesdays, and as it promises to be a beautiful evening I'll likely take my dog for a nice walk. We both need the fresh air after the oppressive humidity of yesterday! The windows are open, the breeze is blowing through, and tonight I'll be able to sleep!

Other issues....

Financially I'm in trouble, because my secondary summer job is not going to give me many hours, if any at all. For now I'm OK, maybe will scrape by, and I'm hoping for the best.

An hour of Adoration before Mass will help give me some peace, I think. Please pray for me...there's a lot going on in my life, a lot of things that will never see the light of my blog, and I'm not going to make it if I don't get my spiritual life in order.

*

Endless Fields of Corn

Sarah has a wonderful post up that brought back images from my own childhood, reminding me of the unfulfilled farmer-girl still somewhere inside me.

My Mom grew up on a farm in southern Minnesota, so as we were growing up, we learned about farm life even while driving country roads in Illinois, with the river on one side and endless fields of waving stalks on the other. Summer has always brought to mind images of green summer fields, stalks growing taller by the day, the rows seeming impossibly straight, and constantly fascinating.

We were told to NEVER wander into a cornfield, for while the rows appeared straight, they weren't always and people would get lost and end up wandering in circles, unable to find their way out. She warned us of the ticks and the bugs (always a terror to me), wanting to be certain that we did not get the idea that we could go for a walk in these fields. "Pa", as she called Grandpa, had given these same warnings to her and all her brothers and sisters, so as Mom warned us, she echoed the love in Grandpa's voice, and the worry of a parent.

In our little hometown in Illinois, I still remember the diner on the short Main street that we'd go to on occasion. A loud air conditioner rattled in the window as the door opened and closed with a BANG!, allowing local farmers to wander in and out freely between the fairly cool interior and the humid summer afternoon. They sat at tables and counter stools with their friends, resembling grown-up versions of the pictures that graced the walls. What farming town hasn't seen the pictures of the two boys on a dirt road, one looking dejected while the other asks, "Been farming long?" As I sat and gobbled the most perfect hamburger in the afternoon and enjoyed one of Ma's famous Malts, I'd stare at that photograph and contemplate the meaning.

I was always entranced by that picture of children my age, and would look from them to the men who came in, wondering if those men were once the boys in the photograph.

It was a comfortable place, a wonderful hometown, and I knew that the people there were the ones responsible for the food we had on our table every day. Throughout the summer months, always, we had the corn and the hay to wave at us in the bright hot breezes; it was a time of life and increasing life, a time of hope, even in the oppressive humidity.

But Mom did not marry a farmer, and so my brother and I did not grow up on a farm, only surrounded by them. When we traveled to Minnesota on vacation, we were comfortable with the fields always surrounding us, and in the summer days at our Aunt and Uncle's farm or at Grandma's house at the "old homestead", we obtained a piece of history for our memories. I hope those memories never fade for they are beautiful in their simplicity.

I still remember the day in late July when Mom, one of the youngest of the family, pulled off the gravel road leading to the old farmhouse where Grandma still held down the fort. We'd grown up hearing about how we should NEVER wander into a field, but that day, Mom decided we needed to take a walk. So she lead us into the field, making sure we stayed together. I think she could see over the stalks, but we could not, and that is what she wanted us to understand. I didn't like it one bit; there were webs, and spiders, and we made my brother knock them down so I could pass through. It was a hot, breezy afternoon, and somewhere in the distance we could see a combine at work in another part of the field. We finally turned and headed out, and upon doing so, met the farmer who had seen us walking through the field. I don't think he knew Mom, but she explained who she was and what we were doing, so he actually also explained that we should never walk in a field, and that we needed to be sure to look out for ticks when we got to Grandma's house. I remember that he'd been very concerned to see us walking, and had come to our car to make sure we would make it out of the field safely. Mom was very apologetic and was somewhat chastized by the farmer, but he understood the lesson she was conveying and asked her to, next time, come knock on their door before walking in the field.

It's one of the funny memories of Mom; she ALWAYS instilled in us the necessity of asking permission before trespassing on someone's property, and the one time she did not follow her own advice, we were caught! Thus, Mom's advice was STILL held up by the very person we "offended."

In any case, that afternoon, we continued down the long gravel road that passed between one farm and the next, knowing the corn far more intimately than we ever had before. As soon as we found the horseshoe-shaped driveway that went around the old farmhouse, Mom was asking us to check for ticks. We were all covered in them; and she used this to remind us NEVER to walk in a field again, a warning I'm not sure we ever really needed. I CERTAINLY never had any inclination to enter a corn field, before or after that day!

When my family moved to Minnesota permanently, we lived in town for the first time, and sadly, I've been within city limits ever since then. But I love the countryside, I love the corn and the grasses and the prairie that forms the romance and the down-home feeling of the Midwestern states. In so many ways, I feel like I'm languishing in the world of pavement and fences and immaculately-planned lawns and housing deveopments.

I want the sunflowers and the dandelions, the violets, the crabgrass...and the corn. I want to look upon green fields and waving hayfields. I want to see the horses in the pasture, grazing contentedly. In essence, I want to live out the images of my childhood, images that have fed my imagination for years, but not my reality.

Corn is just as much a staple of my memories of childhood as it is a staple in a midwestern summer diet; it tastes of the warm humid afternoons and evenings, family gatherings, and if I concentrate hard enough, sometimes I can still feel the caress of the green stalks against my arms and my cheeks as we walked through a Minnesota field that summer day so many years ago.

I may be a city girl now, but I think I still have the soul of a country girl, still trying to find her way home.

Summer Potato Salad!

It's been awhile since I posted one of my "Foods I would serve Jesus" recipes, or, conversely, "Foods I would NOT serve Jesus", and so, today is that day.

On Friday, I had some wonderful potato salad at a friend's home, and it just gave me a craving for more. It's a warm, humid day with NO wind, so I thought...why not make potato salad to have with dinner tonight? Sure!

Growing up, Mom always made the salad with Idaho potatoes, but I tend to favor red, although I've never made it using the little red potatoes with the skins one. In fact, I haven't made this stuff for a couple of years!

So I went to the store after Mass and picked up the necessary main ingredients (I already have a 'fridge full of condiments) and I went to work. It wasn't long before I remembered exactly WHY I haven't made this salad in so long!

First, remember that it's a warm, humid day. And I'm trying hard not to turn on my air conditioning since I am short on money this summer anyhow (with the lack of work hours, increased gas, increased price for groceries....YOU know!). So as the humidity and temperature were going up inside my house, I was realizing the idiocy of my actions. Because of course I can't turn on the air if I'm in the process of heating up my house! Sheesh!

And then I overcooked the potatoes (meaning I had even MORE humidity than necessary in the house!), and went to work on the egg mixture, trying to get the flavor JUST RIGHT. And I chopped up the celery and thanked God I had picked up an onion at the store. And I had to sample the potatoes and the mixture to be sure it tasted right...the mix of mustard and egg and sweet onions and celery...mmmm.

So now the salad is chilling in the 'fridge, I'm STUFFED and no longer interested in eating it. And I'm not sure it's going to be very good, anyway. And funny thing about potato salad; as you have the ingredients separated, it doesn't look like very much. Because of course the egg yolks just become the "sauce". But no; when you put it all together, it's like it MULTIPLIES and become MORE...far more than one can possibly eat! But darn it, I had to PAY for those groceries so I'm going to eat potato salad until I turn into it...because I have enough to last me every meal for a WEEK! And as I don't think it'll be very good, well...this is going to be penance. And I'm REALLY GLAD Jesus isn't coming to dinner tonight. He'd never visit me again if I gave him this stuff!

But I'll give you the recipe anyway. Chances are that if you cook all the time, you won't overcook the potatoes or make too much of the stuff.

* a bunch of red potatoes, or russets, cut the eyes out. If using red, keep the skins on. If using russets, peel.

* a bunch of eggs.

Boil both...the potatoes should be soft but still slightly firm (i.e. not mushy) The eggs should be cooked so that the yolk is firm and pale yellow.

Peel the eggs, spoon the yolks into a bowl and mash them with a fork or something. Add lots of gooey mayo, mustard, and stir it all together. Add salt or pepper to taste. I actually added garlic salt.

Chop the egg whites, some onion and celery, and add it to the egg yolk. Stir it into the potatoes and put the entire mess in the 'fridge.

Clean the egg off the bowls, the cupboard doors, and the dog. Make sure all the onion bits are off the floor (they're poisonous to dogs). Take the garbage out because you just filled it up with random things from the refrigerator that aren't fit for human consumption and haven't been for a long time. (You discovered these items while hunting for a place to put the salad.) Rinse out the bowls and get the egg and mayo and mustard off the silverware, and get the potato off the knife or you'll never be able to use it again.

Then go take a nap while you wait for the house to cool down.

If I feel like eating this stuff later, I'll add an update.

Convicted

How can one possibly ever confess all of one's sins in even ONE category? One of the readings from Morning Prayer today truly stood out to me and brought to mind my recent "series" on the topic of anger. And some will recall how I nearly quit blogging some time ago, tired of the snarkiness surrounding us all.

Ephesians 4:29-32

Never let evil talk pass your lips; say only the good things men need to hear, things that will really help them. Do nothing that will sadden the Holy Spirit with whom you were sealed against the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, all passion and anger, harsh words, slander, and malice of every kind. In place of these, be kind to one another, compassionate, and mutually forgiving, just as God has forgiven you in Christ.

Did you catch that line? "Do nothing that will sadden the Holy Spirit with whom you were sealed against the day of redemption."

Saddening the Holy Spirit...through our actions. How many times we do allow evil to pass through our lips? Do we repeat gossip we've heard without questioning the source or the veracity of it? And even if it IS true...is the knowledge something that builds up others, or tears them down? Do others have the RIGHT to that knowledge? Or should it end when it reaches us?

So often, the blogosphere becomes an "echo chamber" and bad news or evil talk passes from one blog to the next, sometimes triumphantly, as though we are reveling in the misfortune or disaster or another. We just LOVE to criticize the dissidents, often forgetting quite conveniently that we were once in that category. Was it ridicule that brought us back, or the love of Christ through the Mercy of God the Father?

Tonight's Evening Prayer carries on with this theme:

Romans 15:1-3

We who are strong in faith should be patient with the scruples of those whose faith is weak; we must not be selfish. Each should please his neighbor so as to do him good by building up his spirit. Thus, in accord with Scripture, Christ did not please himself: "The reproaches they uttered against you fell on me."


It is not that we do not have the right and duty to defend the Truth; it is that we need to be patient and loving towards those who have had no experience with the Truth. We cannot be selfish, as we often are when we are confronted with those who claim to be Catholic and yet attack the Church. They attack because they do not understand, and they fear what they do not understand. We have to remember the patience of Christ, we have to be willing to be villified and crucified with Him, and in so doing, finally open the channels of grace that will bear fruit with those who attack.

We have to suffer for what and WHOM we love. We don't have to be great debators, and in fact, being so can often contradict the goal we have in mind. Only God knows what is needed, and we must be like Christ in patience and charity when we are confronted with those who attack from within. Anger is not a weapon against them; it is a weapon OF them and serves only to manipulate and cripple us in our endeavors both towards personal holiness and in providing an example to others.

We don't have to be experts in anything in order to do God's work, and we have no right to be angry when what has happened from the beginning of time is continuing to happen even in our age. We are all fallen creatures; to think of ourselves as better or more enlightened in the face of dissidents is to be selfish; for in our self-love we so easily forget that we are even now, as we speak, completely lost.

The Church does not NEED us to defend Her...she has the Holy Spirit. It is that the Church CALLS us to unite our sufferings and loyalty with Christ, and in so doing, build the Kingdom which in turn naturally defends the Body in true Charity.

And yet, we get so caught up in "issues" and what others are doing. Yes, we need to speak out and we are called to act, if not for ourselves, then for the faith of the weak, but we are NOT called to debase ourselves through gossip, calumny, and detraction.

We may judge actions but not persons. We may condemn things that are happening, but we cannot condemn the souls behind the events. We cannot forget that we, too, are fallen beings and even as we point out the sins of another, we cannot hide our own.

It's all about humility and truth...what is true for one is true for another. Even as we call others to conversion, we must delve into our own souls and call ourselves into account; to do otherwise is selfish.

I know that God has given me much, and He has given me faith; that gift can be taken away at any moment; it is not the gift or any merit of mine that makes me better or holy; it is God Himself. On my own, I can do nothing and on my own, I am lost. We are all the same.

God is merciful; let us imitate Him and remember that we are dust and that this earth holds nothing for us.
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Elusive as the Rainbow?

I'll never forget the moment. In the middle of a spring rainstorm, a friend and I looked out towads the forested bluffs surrounding the field adjoining our dorm. We were astounded to witness the end of a rainbow planted not far from the edge of the parking lot.

I can still remember staring in astonishment at the brilliant color rising out of the grassy field, into the sky, and over the low bluff that ran alongside the drive. We could look through the colors as through glass and see the trees waving in the breeze on the other side.

My friend and I stared at each other for a moment, both with the same idea; to stand bathed in that color!

Laughing, we both sprinted towards the end of the rainbow, not caring that there was no pot of gold. It would be enough to "touch" the refracted light that had, until that day, never been even CLOSE to tangible. That afternoon, the light seemed tangible and we could not pass up this opportunity!

I can still feel the rough pavement under my shoes turning into the soft grass of the field, and I can still remember the retreating colors, first to the end of the field, and then to the trees, and finally, into the bluffs, still visible against the rocky wall at the end of the ravine.

We knew we'd lost, and yet, it was a blessed moment; how many people have ever even SEEN the end of a rainbow, much less chased it in any hope of catching it?

Once again, today, in response to a comment from a friend, I was thinking about holiness and how elusive it seems.

Holiness is intangible, too, yet it can be possessed in a way that a rainbow cannot. At the same time, though, it seems that the pursuit of holiness is much like our experience in pursuing the rainbow; we can see it, we are close enough to touch it, and yet as we run towards it, it retreats far into the valley.

I can't truly compare this with authentic holiness, though, in that there is another dimension to consider. Holiness maybe only SEEMS to retreat, but in reality, as it "retreats" from our grasp, it is actually God beckoning us further, to follow that path even into thick forest and dark valleys. But the Promise still remains; we must only remain faithful and not give up.

I only wish that I could find the motivation to pursue holiness with as much effort as I had in that sprint on the day I sought to possess the rainbow.
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The War Between Doubt and Faith

Jn 20:24-29

Thomas, called Didymus, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.” But Thomas said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nail marks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

Now a week later his disciples were again inside and Thomas was with them. Jesus came, although the doors were locked, and stood in their midst and said, “Peace be with you.”

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.”

Thomas answered and said to him, “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus said to him, “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”

Today's gospel is one of my new favorites, and the more I read it, the more I see, and the more I am ashamed.

Just last night, I was praying about something big going on in my life, something that doesn't just affect me, but more importantly, it affects others. What I do or choose not to do right now could have an impact, although I'd rather not dwell too deeply on those thoughts. So I offered a simple prayer and I asked not for a "sign" per se, but rather, an affirmation that I'm doing the right thing. Or, conversely, that my actions be shut down completely if what I'm doing is outside of God's will.

Apparently it's not sufficient to me to be following what might be a prompt of the Holy Spirit and letting it take me where it will. Over the last several months as I've been following this path, doors have opened and doors have closed. What I need to do is learn patience and let God just answer rather than allowing my faith to falter becase I don't "see" what I think I'm supposed to see. God always has other plans; I don't think it's possible for we finite beings to be able to grasp God's vision of how things should be.

This morning I missed Mass, but I went to the chapel to pray and I brought my Liturgy of the Hours (when I can, I like to pray in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.) In the Office of Readings was a portion of a homily by Pope St. Gregory the Great, and I both found that my own eyes were opened AND I was convicted by his words of wisdom. So I will allow St. Gregory to speak for himself:

"Dearly beloved, what do you see in these events? Do you really believe that it was by chance that this chosen disciple was absent, then came and heard, heard and doubted, doubted and touched, touched and believed? It was not by chance but in God's providence. In a marvelous way God's mercy arranged that the disbelieving disciple, in touching the wounds of his master's body, should heal our wounds of disbelief. The disbelief of Thomas has done more for our faith than the faith of the other disciples. As he touches Christ and is won over to belief, every doubt is cast aside and our faith is strengthened. So the disciple who doubted, then, felt Christ's wounds, becomes a witness too the reality of the resurrection."

Incredible. Even in our doubt, God in His mercy finds a way to bring our doubt to true faith. We, who live over 2,000 years after the resurrection, have never seen Christ in the flesh as He was when dear St. Thomas probed His wounds. Yet we believe, for the eyewitness testimony provided in John's Gospel informs and builds our faith. We believe because we know the testimony to be true even though we have not witnessed the event ourselves. Truly, if Christ came to stand before us now, would we believe more than we do when we are at Mass, and receiving the Body and Blood of Christ in Holy Communion?

We do not need to see in order to believe, thanks to the testimony of the doubting Apostle who revealed Truth from his own skepticism.

St. Gregory tells us in the same homily:

"What is seen gives knowledge, not faith. When Thomas saw and touched, why was he told: You have believed because you have seen me? Because what he saw and what he believed were different things. God cannot be seen by mortal man. Thomas saw a human being, whom he acknowledged to be God, and said: My Lord and my God. Seeing, he believed; looking at one who was true man, he cried out that this was God, the God he could not see."

In an ironic twist, Pope St. Gregory the Great points out the obvious; it is not what we see that gives us faith. In the words of St. Paul, "Faith is the guarantee of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (LOH translation) What we can see and touch and explore informs our intellect, which in turn forms our ability to reason. It is in this very moment that the knowledge of St. Thomas is blended with his faith in the God in whom he believed, but could not see. There, before him was Christ Himself, both God and Man, the unity of whom gave him the ability to join intellect with faith.

It is this particular gospel that I was musing about some time ago that made me consider that indeed, Christ exists in human form, just as He did when He appeared to the Apostles. If He chose, Jesus could appear to us all in that form, and invite us all to explore the wounds in His hands, feet, and in His side and see that they are real. Yet, Jesus does not choose to do this; "Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed." We are more greatly blessed through the gift of faith, which asks of us also to make a conscious act of the will to believe. St. Thomas provides us with the evidence, standing in for us all in our own doubt.

Sometimes we all need some kind of affirmation when our will falters, and we fear we are leaving the path God has set us upon. And God, in His mercy, can respond with signal graces in order to reassure us. But in the abscence of those graces, we must consider the actions of St. Thomas and his initial outright REFUSAL to believe. Do we fall into that category? Do we refuse to believe if God does not respond to our demands? Or do we keep our hand to the plow, trusting that what God has revealed is true, and even as we labor, that we are being lead?

These are all questions we need to ask ourselves. Let us pray through the intercession of St. Thomas that we may always believe, especially in what has been revealed but has been unseen by ourselves.
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Selfless Singles?

I keep coming across the same message; in prayer, in Liturgy of the Hours, and in random articles. It's the message to live for others.

That happens to be a big failure of mine. Even when I’m doing something good for others, I think I’m still really doing it for myself, and it’s hard to shake that selfish motivation. For many of us, even when we don’t realize it, we are often doing what appears to be completely selfless things, while in the back of our minds we’re thinking, “What’s in it for me? How will this advance ME?”

I don’t mean to suggest that the good feeling that comes with doing the right thing, or for acting for someone’s betterment is wrong; I’m just suggesting that "what's in it for us" is not the factor that should motivate us to do ANYTHING. Loving others means putting them first and living our lives for them. It means letting our comfort take a back seat to the needs of those around us without considering whether or not we ourselves obtain some kind of temporal or spiritual benefit through our actions.

I think that’s one of the harder things in the single life; we tend to be more self-centered, probably because, not only do we not have people in our immediate vicinity that need us to respond to them, but because we have to survive. Just as we have no one to look out for, we also have no one to look out for US! In that kind of survival mode, we must be self-centered to a certain degree for our own practical protection.

The challenge is to find the balance; to find where it is necessary to indulge that survival mode, versus where we can and should drop that wall and fully engage in devoting ourselves for the benefit of those we say we love, whether it's our own family, our friends, or the neighbors next door.

I often consider the freedom I have as a single woman, and how blessed I am in so many ways. Yet I also feel guilty because I KNOW there's something more I should be offering, or perhaps I should be taking more notice of those around me who may need something that I can provide.