Begging Him to Leave

I've started reading the New Testament again. I read a bit every day and (as of yesterday), I decided to write a verse down that particularly stood out to me, and then write a reflection about it. I hope you don't mind that I'm sharing today's with you. You don't mind? Oh, good.

"...the whole town came out to meet Jesus, and when they saw him they begged him to leave their district." Matthew 8:34

Life with Jesus is hard. Hard because your life ceases to be your own. No longer can the things of this world be the end-all-be-all. Jesus demands that we leave everything behind when we follow him. Even family attachments have to come second when we answer his call. This puts us at odds with this world and beyond its comprehension. It's almost as if the world is saying, "We like you, Jesus, we really do. But would you tone down things a bit?"

In Matthew 8, Jesus has just driven out two demons--and at the same time made it safe again for people to travel in that area. He should be praised as a hero, like Theseus or Hercules were when they vanquished monsters. But he allowed the demons to possess a herd of swine--which caused them to plunge into the sea, where they drowned. So, driving out demons? Good. A bunch of drowned pigs? Bad.

Thanks, but no thanks, Jesus.

When Jesus starts messing with our livelihood...our stuff, we don't like it. "Just leave us alone!", we cry. Leave us with our problems, our weakness, our sin. We can live with that. But challenge our beliefs, our worldview, or way of life? Never. In fact, our response to Jesus is the same as Jesus' response to the demons: "Leave, get out!"

Jesus asks nothing short of everything. Our entire beings. And in this world, those who follow him will appear very foolish. But when we give him our everything, he transforms us. He gives us everything we need in this life. And everything we desire in the next.

Go ahead. Call me foolish. But I'm sticking with him.

What is holding you back from giving everything to Christ?

Riding the Bus

You meet the most interesting people while waiting for the bus. That is, if you look up long enough from your phone or book. He was wearing a construction orange and yellow vest and baggy pants.

"Did you see the concert last night?" he asked, without filling in the usual context of whose concert and where. Turns out it was a benefit concert for the most recent devastating natural disaster.

"Even the vampire girl was there...Kristin Scott Thomas."
"Kristin Stewart?" I prompted.
"Oh yeah. I can never remember her name. She flew out all the way from LA to New York so she could introduce Bon Jovi."
"It was for a good cause." I suggested.
"Yeah, I had no idea how bad they were affected."

When we spoke he looked directly into my eyes and stood still. When we weren't speaking, he was constantly moving, shifting his weight from one foot to another, like a raptor anticipating his next meal or like an ice skater. Every now and then he would shuffle his feet like he was dancing to a tune stuck in his head. I half-expected him to burst out into a Gene Kelly inspired rendition of "Gotta Dance."

A few moments passed as he looked at the bus route. "You could go just about anywhere from here."

I smiled and agreed.

Marriage Prep is Not for the Faint of Heart

Marriage prep is crazy--wonderful and beautiful, yes, but still crazy. We sigh longingly. We pace impatiently. We doubt. We love. We doubt some more.

Doubts come from fear--fear that maybe I'm not ready for such a big step. Life without the stresses of planning a wedding sounds pretty appealing at times. But then, I can't imagine the alternative. Not so much the wasted dress or reception hall, but the wasted opportunity to grow in love with my beloved, my Andy.

And so we deal with all the aggravating details. And I try not to get frustrated or cranky every time something doesn't go as planned. Because, ultimately, God is planning something far greater--the miracle of two lives becoming one through the sacrament of marriage. We're only in charge of one day's festivities. He's in charge of all eternity.

I think we've got the easier job.

Behold, I Make All Things New

It is sunset. The sky is bright with pastels; here and there, white scuds the atmosphere like a child's scrawl. I have just woken up from disconnected apocalyptic dreams. Without my glasses (left behind on my night stand), my far-sighted eyes struggle to focus on the glaring computer screen. My thoughts are as hazy as my vision--it is difficult to think clearly when one's vision is obscured.

What to do with these few unscheduled minutes? I have been hopping from activity to activity--and my life has settled into a dizzying merry-go-round of school-work-sleep-school-work-sleep. I just looked at the last phrase--how can I settle into chaos? Anyway, lately I have been feeling the ache of spring more keenly. With almost two weeks of gorgeous weather, my eyes constantly stray from my work (or my students' work) to gaze at the glory that is spring.

Will I ever cease to be amazed at Spring's adornments? Her joyful chirping birds, her nimble, task-oriented ants, her buds bursting forth into sprays of green, gold, and pink? I dearly hope not. I desire to forever be in awe of life--in all its forms. The plant whose leaves were drooping yesterday stretches out robustly today after a good quenching soak. The child who slumped down at his desk after receiving a poor grade last week bobs lightly on his chair after being recognized for an insight today. Life is delicate. Life is resilient.

"It's almost time to depart!" My roommate gently reminds me, as water splashes in her green bottle for our fitness class. Soon I will be joining classmates for an intense, hour-long, muscle-fatiguing workout. But not yet. I still have this moment. This moment to pause, and take in my surroundings. In this moment of wonder, I find my nourishment and encouragement.

When was the last time you spared a moment for wonder?

For All the Saints

Saint Clare and Saint Francis of Assisi

We look to the saints, and follow their gaze heavenward.

Today is the Feast of All Saints. This is one of my favorite feast days. First of all, it is the feast day of ALL of those that the church recognizes as being in heaven. That means it's the feast of St. Francis of Assisi just as much as it is the feast of St. Francis de Sales. Three hundred years separate the two in earthly reckoning, and the differences also extend to dispositions and roles in the church. But today (and, in reality, through all eternity) they are honored side by side--completely united in the love of Christ.

My love for the saints has increased, rather than decreased, as I have gotten older. Most people become more cynical as they "grow up"--leaving behind those childish notions of piety and devotion. I also feel the tugs of the secular world, telling me to abandon those silly traditions and live in the here and now. "Why must you always be looking to the things and people of the past?" one childhood friend chided me once. I didn't have an answer for him then.

But now I think of the great people of the past as more than models of virtue and holiness. They are truly friends, comrades in the fight. And we are so blessed to have an abundance of friends to choose from. Depending on your own personality and inclinations, you can have the quiet, humble St. Therese of Lisieux for your patron or the boisterous, bumbling Saint Peter. Both were incredibly in love with Christ; both strove to join him someday in heaven. Both were missionaries: St. Therese as a missionary of prayer--never leaving her Carmelite convent; St. Peter as a missionary of action--spreading the Gospel far and wide and leading the Church as the first pope.

They are patrons, in that they are looking out for us, aiding us in their prayers and intercession. And so I pray to them, for their help and guidance. They have won the fight for themselves, but now they are like generals in an army, guiding and molding those still engaged in battle.

Is devotion to the saints foolish, childish, or even superstitious? In 1 Corinthians 2:14, St. Paul writes, "a natural man does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; and he cannot understand them." God's ways are not our ways; rather they are beyond our understanding: truly mysterious and truly glorious.

Recipe for giggling baby

Take one (1) mildly contented baby.
Wiggle a towel and rush toward baby.
Make sound effects, as needed.
Drop towel* on baby's head.
Ask, with concern, "Where's (insert baby's name here)?"
Pause for effect.
In a few adorable seconds, baby will remove towel from head.
Exclaim, "There you are! Peek-a-boo!"
Result: Two (2) incredibly giggly people (you and the baby).
Enjoy!

*This recipe is particularly effective when doing laundry. Feel free to substitute anything soft in lieu of a towel.

23 is Not a Fun Age To Be

23 is a rotten age. I suppose I should be excited. I should revel in the anticipation that surrounds my every action. But 23 is a kind of limbo. So many questions, so few answers. Will I get married? 23 shrugs. Will I get a "real" job? 23 equivocates. Will I ever move out of my parent's house? 23 settles in.

23 is restless, bored, hopeful, distressed, equal parts pie in the sky and down in the dumps. At 21, I was newly graduated from college, ready to conquer the world (or at least strike out on my own). But Fate dealt a cruel blow. I was a senior in college when the economy collapsed. My vision of acquiring a full-time job with benefits deflated right along with it. I took my old summer job until that ended. I spent seven months serving at a maternity home. And then came my string of seasonal work. I began to wonder when, if ever, I would have a normal job with a modest, but liveable income.

23 walks a tight rope. On one side is childhood and adolescence. On the other is adulthood. 23 wobbles somewhere in between.


A part of me knows that this is just a phase, a fleeting second adolescence. Soon I will reach the other side and solid ground, and leave the tight rope for others to cross. In the meantime, I stagger and sway, a bit unsure of my footing. And my eyes see with joy that the end is near. In a month I'll be turning 24.