Call me captain obvious, but I’m finding (once again) that there is nothing pretty about entering Lent. Beautiful? Absolutely. Growing? Definitely. Palatable? Less so.

This morning already, even while chocolate cookies bake for fat Tuesday, I’m mentally readying myself for the stark season we embark on tomorrow, and even the mundane to-do list smacks of little deaths and resurrections:

1. Take down Valentine décor
2. Plant garden seedlings/revive overwintered geraniums
3. Own up to biting off more than you can chew with the Lenten devotional
4. Enjoy final cup of coffee

As a gardener, the word Lent (which means springtime) resonates with me deeply. It is perfectly matched with the interior work of preparing and cultivating, metaphorically letting worms run wild through the compost of my life with the understanding that the more work done now, the more beautiful growing season it will be. But I’ve got to tell you, I was working in the yard this morning. I was sweating, I was muddy, and all I have to show for it is a bunch of red solo cups full of dirt, and a couple of paltry looking geraniums that spent the winter in a brown paper bag.

This doesn’t bode well for what’s about to take place. I repeat: There is nothing pretty about Lent.

I’ve given in to circumstantial Lents for the past couple years simply because those seasons were growing in and of themselves, bringing me to my knees and offering ample opportunities to die to myself. That said, having the option to personally select my cross this year, feels like a big deal. Thanks be to God for peaks and valleys! Whether you find yourself in on a mountain top, or deep in a valley, I pray that Jesus meets you right in the middle of it all.

As I planted seeds this morning, imagining the garden I’m hoping to cultivate after two summers without one, I couldn’t shake the thought that it is a fitting time to be shoving withered seeds into the earth. Everything about it is counter-intuitive. Just like the Paschal mystery: Dying to rise.

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On a related note, the Lenten reflection booklet was making strides, but in order to provide a thorough and professional option with ample lead time, I’ve decided to offer it for next year. What I can tell you is that I am excited about what’s coming and I think it will be worth the wait. While I was excited to get this into your hands asap, I am grateful to have the space to move a bit slower and to provide a better option next spring.

Enjoy your Mardi Gras celebrations today. I am praying for a nourishing Lenten journey for us all this year.

“ I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.  You have already been pruned and purified by the message I have given you.  Remain in me, and I will remain in you. For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and you cannot be fruitful unless you remain in me.” -John 15: 1-4

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There is something greater than Jonah here. –Matthew 12:41

Let me tell you something about Jonah. I have a love/hate relationship with him. Not that he isn’t a great Prophet or anything. It’s just that irritation we recognize as a result of *those* people who remind us of our own faults. They rub us the wrong way.

I have a vivid memory stored in my mind of a girls’ weekend during grad school where I snuck away with friends to rest/eat/drink/marvel at the work we had been about. Many of us were wrapping up capstone projects; one was carrying a new life. We were deep in discernment around what was to come next, and getting away and into the quiet of the snowy woods felt good.

The time away was balm for my spirit–driving home, less so

Along the way, someone had been learning about the enneagram. It really can be a wonderful tool  to help identify strengths and weaknesses for self-reflection or group work. She pulled it out during the drive home for the fun of it.

While we took our little inventories and scored ourselves based on preferences and natural tendencies, I quickly identified myself as a “nine;” the peace-maker. This was not at all surprising. If anything it was an affirmation of what I knew to be true about myself after twenty-odd trips around the sun.

As we talked about the ‘fit’ of our characteristics, we began reading about the Scripture that might shed the most light on our gifts and ‘growing edges.’ You already know what’s coming. My Scripture story: You Guessed it.

Jonah. The man God asked to save Nineveh. Jonah the great prophet, who out of fear of the task set before him, hops a ship to run away from God’s call. Not only that, when his shipmates figure out who he is running from, they send him overboard at which time he is swallowed by a whale. All before he gets up the gumption to do what it is that was being asked of him, and is promptly dispatched from the belly of the whale to go and get to work.

Sweet humility: Jonah is my Scriptural personality twin

Regardless of his slow start, once he gets moving, Jonah has tremendous success. Nineveh is a huge city—one that takes three days to walk through. “Forty more days and Nineveh will fall,” is the unpopular message he’d been told to share. As a peacemaker, I feel for him roaming about with this message. No one in Nineveh wanted to hear that. But, because of Jonah’s obedience and (eventual) courage, the Ninevites and their king put on sackcloth, fasted, and repented. Having witness their metanoia, God did not carry out the evil that He intended (Jonah 1-2).

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Take-aways

1. Growing up, I always heard that having the kinds of folks in our lives who happen to irk us, is in fact a good reminder of how not to behave. I believe it–there is hope for growth in each of us. *Though truthfully, I still squirm a bit even when I see illustrations in children’s Bible stories of Jonah inside the belly of a whale!
2. Particularly when God is guiding any of us toward something—regardless of how uncomfortable or unprepared we feel for the endeavor ahead—our level of anxiety is not proportionate to its impending failure. Sure, it is possible. But, more often than not, if God is leading the venture, failure wasn’t on the table to begin with.

Just as Jonah was in the belly of the whale three days and three nights, so will the Son of Man be in the heart of the earth three days and three nights. At the judgment, the men of Nineveh will arise with this generation and condemn it, because they repented at the preaching of Jonah; and there is something greater than Jonah here.

Matthew 12:40-41

As we continue to embrace to affects of Holy week, Jonah might be a fitting companion. For all his faults, Jonah does know a thing or two about cooperating with God in unimaginable and salvific circumstances; which is our invitation, too. The process of dying to ourselves to rise is Paschal mystery in a nutshell.

Summoning courage

In the spirit of summoning courage to begin something new that I have been putting off for a while, I am inviting you to take part with me in a deep-dive into Catholic Social Teaching. My hope is to dig into these tenets of our faith has been with me for years now, and I am finally ready to do it and am hoping that you’ll join me!

Click here to join us for bi-monthly deep-dive into the social teachings of the Church!

I’m making these reflections available to subscribers only, so please subscribe. I would really appreciate it if you would invite others who might enjoy a closer look at some fantastic content and giveaways!

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This post is part of a blog hop by Spoken Women, an online community of Catholic women nurturing their creative callings. Click here to view the next post in this series “Something Greater.” *

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I don’t mean to brag, but we eat a lot of leftovers in this house. Don’t get me wrong, none of them are Pinterest-worthy. I blame it on my work-study job in the school cafeteria, and my days of ‘gleaning’ groceries at their pull date to feed a large volunteer group. I can work with just about anything in our refrigerator that will nourish us for another day.

This is not always popular, but it is economic, and I do rest in the relief of having saved something from being needlessly thrown away.

Actually, I thrive on it.

Compost. Seeds. Leftovers. (Lent)

Just Wednesday, we stood in  line once again, reminded of our finiteness. Somber for sure, especially as I watch my children’s ash-smudged faces before me, over our soup supper. Such a striking contrast: Life & death. And yet, I have come to rely on these images of resurrection that remind me that even when all appears futile, lost, broken, and bruised, God is not in the business of letting our fragments go to waste. (John 6: 1-12). 

Word and sacrament–Scripture and Eucharist–transform my midweek leftovers. They transform me from a mindless consumer into someone capable of Eucharistic interdependence and gratitude. They teach me to receive these leftovers–and all of life–as a gift.

And yet they also serve as a judgement on my meal, a call to repentance for the systems of scarcity and injustice that I perpetuate in my average day. They call me to work toward a new way of being–and eating–that allows me to better know, love and serve my neighbors. They challenge me to empty myself for others, knowing that I will be filled to the brim over and over again in the abundant economy of worship. In Christ there will always be,enough for us, with so much left over.

We are endlessness in need of nourishment, and nourishment comes, usually, like taco soup. Abundant and overlooked. -Tish Harrison Warren, Liturgy of the Ordinary

Tish Harrison Warren, Liturgy of the Ordinary

In this spirit, we imitate Love itself. This paradoxical living invites us to add chairs to the table, a little more broth to the pot. We are reminded in a thousand little ways, like the Gospel reading for today when St. Matthew tells his disciples, ‘For I was hungry and you gave me food,I was thirsty and you gave me drink,a stranger and you welcomed me,naked and you clothed me,ill and you cared for me,in prison and you visited me.’ 

Seen in this way, the sacrifices we offer this season feel more like opportunities to glimpse once again, the ways in which our meager offerings are anything but wasted. How important it is to be reminded of this! Bring all that you can offer, and it will be more than enough.

Our call to share faith is not limited to our physical address.

Speaking of Lenten practices, I’m sharing on the Blessed Is She blog today, on opportunities to share our faith with our own children, and all children of God.

“Whether you read this as a brand new God-mama to your infant nephew, as a mother of a lapsed Catholic, child caretaker of an agnostic parent, spouse of a non-believer, grandmother to a child(ren) growing up in a home that is no longer practicing their Faith, or the lone holdout of your “cradle Catholic” family…it is important.I’ve been giving this a lot of thought because there is so much to know about our Faith and Tradition. It is simultaneously simple and mind-bendingly complex…” keep reading.

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Esther, Ruth, Naomi, Rachel, Elizabeth, Anna, Hannah, Sarah–I love learning about these mothers of our faith! I love thinking about the women who have gone before us. And, I aspire to learn from them.

Blame it on my old soul. In the spirit of matriarchs, I decided to forgo the perfectly curated greenery image for this post, because at this point in the winter, this Christmas Cactus is a show-stopper in our front window: Coral & fuchsia in a season of muted browns and grays. 

I particularly love it because it reminds me of two important matriarchs in the life of our family. 

The pink cactus had been a Valentines day gift for my Grandmother in a cold and dreary Wisconsin February; she died the following day. It blooms each year in memory of her anniversary, without fail.

The coral cactus belonged to my husband’s grandmother and bloomed in her sunny dining room window in rural Indiana. When I received it after her funeral, I knew exactly where it would go.

Mingled up in my remembrance flower pot.

Besides the geographic distance between these two, I’m not sure these gals would have been natural friends: 

Sassy and introverted, proud Irish red-head until the end; motorcycle-rider, meets Church secretary and card shark, who was known to mow the lawn in pumps.

And yet, their legacies are permanently intertwined. In thinking of them, I was reminded of this excerpt from a collection of stories on women’s friendship in the rural west:

“I was doing my usual Cinco de Mayo garden digging when I unearthed two carrots–deep-buried, bright orange surprises with green stems. So, of course, I stopped digging to taste them: very woody but full-bodied carrot taste. 

Chewing on this fascinating find made me think of my granddaughter Alissa’s other grandmother, the one who teaches her how to scrape, slice, dice, blend, mash, and puree carrots. If Alissa were here with me now, the only tool we’d use before chomping on the carrots would be the garden hose.

And with the munching came the revelation: kids need both kind of grandmas. They need a grandma who teaches them to cook and a grandma who will eat anything; one to learn from and one to practice on…

There ought to be a word in English like the Spanish comadre; a word that means you recognize the bond, you declare the relationship to your child’s mother-in-law. Her hand raised the child your child fell in love with. There ought to be a word in English that kisses that hand, that says thank you for giving all the tools, skills, and love you have to help my child and yours build their life together; the differences between us, the diversity in us, only expand their horizons.”

– Claudette Ortiz, Woven on the Wind.

Variety of blooms

I love her recognition of needing a variety of things. I love that we can learn from Hannah’s prayerfulness, Ruth’s loyalty to Naomi, Esther’s wisdom, Sarah’s faithfulness, Rachel’s patience, Elizabeth’s trust.

And, I love the way these distinct lives or our fore bearers have begun to blossom together, if even metaphorically.

Now each year, all February long, life erupts, vibrant colors mingling. I love the thought that in our home, we hold onto something tangible they cared for, too. Of course, the houseplant isn’t the only thing; Their great-grandchildren bounce off the walls of this same room, proof positive that the legacy of these two women, who never met, lives on. As long as I live, I don’t think I will walk past the darned thing without being struck by the fact that these strangers, have unintentionally left behind a stunning heritage.

Would that I heed their thriving witness and seek to bloom with unlikely “comadres” in all circumstances.

Feast of St. Valentine

I hope you have a blessed Valentine’s day tomorrow. If you are in the market for any ways to spread the love, I’m writing on learning to be neighbor, inspired by one of my favorite books for Blessed Is She, today…. 

Admittedly, this vision of neighborliness is my New Year’s resolution. It does not have to be yours, too. The good news is, it can take as much or little time as you have. You do not have to be wealthy/single/married/empty-nesting/young/old to do this and do it well. Keep reading

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The season of Lent is often referred to as a journey or a desert—a place to be navigated as foreigners on the search. The Old Testament stories remind us that there is no preparing for the events that unfold, or how they unfold in our own hearts. I’ve mentioned it before, but if you need something to get you in the spirit as we re-visit Passover, I highly recommend this poem by Alla Bozarth-Campbell.

Here we are standing on the last sturdy ground for the next three days. The week will continue, surely, but it begins to take on a somber tone as we enter Triduum—the three holiest days of the Church’s year.

Tomorrow evening, around the globe, the Church will gather at dusk, roll back its sleeves, and return to the surprising practice that jump started the first Easter. The Church will take on the posture of servanthood as it washes the feet of its community and breaks bread together.

This is the posture with which we’re reminded to begin: kneeling in service

Next, we move into the harsh reality of Good Friday. Fasting, silence, hearing Christ’s passion, perhaps participating in Stations of the Cross, Adoration of the Cross, Mass with no consecration—the only day of the year this does not take place.

The stage is set for despair.

The following night, we’ll gather again on the vigil of the third day—could it be? Candles blaze, lilies permeate the space, physical darkness turning to lights bright as day, banners, singing, incense, Baptism, and Alleluias resound.

This is no time for despair! In fact, we’re about to enter the longest period of celebration of the Church year—50 days of Easter!

This synopsis is not required for you, I know—we’ve done this dozens of times, right? And yet it’s the annual celebration that moves us, and flies by until we encounter it again the following year.

Both/And

I’ve been marveling about this despair-turned-joy whiplash for a month or so now, feeling a nudge to enter into this week with joy and expectation, certainly; as well as a deeper awareness of those for whom the enthusiasm of Easter Sunday falls squarely in their experience of heartache. It’s offering me an invitation to be ready to sidle on up to heartbreak, and to celebrate resurrection when it comes—even out of season. To read more on this, hop over to the Blessed Is She blog.

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As I sit down to write, my husband is refereeing the battle going on upstairs between sisters—it seems an appropriate time to reflect gratefully on the next week we’ll have together with no school.  I don’t have a sister, so this is my first formal taste of the squabbling, and whew! It is fierce and frequent.

Surprisingly, none of my Lenten suggestions seem to inspire their loving attitudes toward one another, or make any impact on the urge to bicker.

Lent is such a difficult concept for kids (let’s be honest, it’s tough for adults, too). The practice of self-denial for Jesus’ sake is a bit ethereal. No meat and desserts on Fridays, ‘because it’s Friday,’ makes for a tough sell on this Liturgical season in our house and an unbearable time of not getting what we want.

Right?

I think we get the concept of Easter, and then again, it’s difficult to grasp the fact that there was a whole long stretch of temptation and suffering that preceded the Passion. And the truth is we repel suffering. In every way—lack of sleep (hello, daylight savings time), hunger (looking at you, Ash Wednesday & Good Friday), generosity  of time, talent, or treasure (when it means I get less). As a country, and maybe as people in general, we suffer from a Theology of scarcity rather than a Theology of abundance—a belief in a system in which we have to fight to have our needs met, instead of one where it is possible for the needs of all to be met.

I think at its core, this is really an instinctual response to survival—I want that last French fry, I want to get the parking spot closest to the exit, the last ticket to the event, the aisle seat, the first place in line, first round for school enrollment…you get the picture.

I can certainly resonate with this lately.

Recently we have been talking about some tasks we’d like to tackle on our home—stemming from our ability to comfortably host folks for birthday parties, Christmas gatherings, etc. I was feeling particularly justified in my desire to make some of these home improvements—”because they’re long overdue,” I made my case—until I did a quick skim through the headlines and recognized my grasping for beauty and comfort to feel a bit like my kids’ shallow squabbling for ‘what they deserved,’ when the item up for grabs was given as a gift. 

(Ouch).

This is not to say we cannot receive good gifts, but maybe a timely reminder that everything I have has been given as gift, and the only appropriate response is to steward that with open hands rather than closed fists. Just maybe, their genuine pursuit of justice bothered me so much this morning because it reminded me sharply of my own feelings of scarcity and what that can look like when my desire to get while the getting is good overpowers my belief in a God who is generous and asks me to be the same. 

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In related news, I’m reflecting on the first feast day of St. Oscar Romero tomorrow at Blessed Is She.

Stay tuned.

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As I write, the spring sun chasing snow from the shadows of our yard. We’re tending four, adolescent chickens in our basement until it is warm enough to send them outside. Fellow bee club members are offering a crash-course in swarm-catching as my beloved beehive succumbed to a mite infestation last week.  I’m devouring Christie Purifoy’s gorgeous Roots & Sky, while plotting a renegade perennial pollinator garden on the ugly strip of dirt that lines the street behind our home.

In short, I’m itching for spring.

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It being Holy week and all, I figured: Why not sit a spell and consider what is about to unfold, and already unfolding?

Today is Holy Thursday—Maundy Thursday if you prefer. Actually, I just learned that ‘maundy’ is derived from the Latin, ‘mandatum,’ which means commandment. How striking that the day is commemorated for the commandment given the disciples to become the servant to one another…and that I am just now unpacking what that powerful title conveys.

So when he had washed their feet and put his garments back on and reclined at table again, he said to them, “Do you realize what I have done for you? You call me ‘teacher’ and ‘master,’ and rightly so, for indeed I am. If I therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do

-John 13: 12-15

Perspective

It’s been a year already since last Easter, and I’m anxious to embrace this Triduum in a new way. I can’t unlearn how viscerally or spiritually painful Good Friday can be, or how stark the contrast can feel between Friday and Sunday—a pace too break-neck for casual participation. Having had a year to sit with the Good Friday experience, I’m hoping that this year, I can enter into the week mindful of those for whom this day is impossibly difficult—a confirmation of hurt and brokenness, while begging for the grace of an Easter Sunday of celebration of resurrection.

If you’re finding yourself resonating with and struggling to move from the scenes or death and humiliation of Christ’s passion, to the joy of new life this Easter, know that I’m holding you with me in a particular way.

(Consequently I’m hoping to do this with children in-tow—flying solo—as my husband recently joined the choir to get his Gregorian chant fix. I’ll let you know how that goes…)

Holy Thursday

I’m also sharing my thoughts on a different angle of Holy Thursday on the Blessed Is She blog, today.

Blessings to you during these Holy days.

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(This is a real time conversation in my head that began on Good Friday and continues inconveniently and honestly, into the Easter season).

Connecting with Scripture

A wise woman I know leads Advent retreats in which she invites retreatants to imagine the role that they might play in the nativity story and anything is fair game– people, livestock, and inanimate objects. The point of the exercise is to imagine yourself in the story. I love it. I especially love it because I find that it changes for me each year. This year, I decided to enter into the passion narrative to find which experience I find myself most closely relating to. I continually found myself circling around the empty tomb of Jesus.

What do I mean?

The tomb is a unique part of the story. In some ways it is a small detail, an unnecessary place for burial as it turns out. Then again, it provides the punchline of the story; had there been no tomb to lay the crucified Lord in, or no need of a tomb, the entire story changes. Without the empty tomb, how would we understand resurrection?

Depending on how you look at it, the tomb is indirectly involved in the experience of the passion, or (if we’re imagining its participation) perhaps it was satisfied to have been given a role—any role–at all. If stones could speak, I wonder if they might have grieved for having lost the identity as a place of resting for the Word made flesh (if even in so doing, the Paschal mystery was revealed to the world)? Jesus’ resurrection changed everything, and  at the end of the day the tomb that may have felt itself very honored to have had any role to perform in service to the King of Kings, is left un-necessary, discarded…empty.

Grappling

Recently our family began to share the news that we were expecting, which is a joyful proclamation in this season of new life, I can tell you. Not long after, our first ultrasound images revealed a baby with no heartbeat. Our follow-up ultrasound was scheduled for 3:00 on Good Friday; the irony of this situation was not lost on us.  I knew what we would find even as they wrote up our appointment reminder cards, hopeful as I wanted to be. The appointment revealed that I, too, am empty. No longer filling the role I understood myself to have filled weeks earlier.

Grief has landed in my lap and I am grappling with how to make meaning of it. How in these moments of emptiness and frustration and this season of resurrection, do I bear the truth of circumstantial woundedness and choose joy?  How do I sit with the story of Lazarus or Mary & Jesus’ garden chat when my own cries feel as though they have been given little response?

One gift that has come out of a particularly somber Triduum celebration is that I have found a collection of voices that have helped to name at least a portion of this journey that I’ve admittedly paid little attention to before this year: The terrifying and valuable fruit of entering into the grief and sadness of Good Friday with my own reality. (See also, this, and this and this, and most of all, this:

“But for those of you hunkered down on Good Friday, identifying with the loss of this day in agonizing ways, ways that you did not want to understand the cross, I am your sister this year. When too many things still feel dead and resurrection feels as unlikely and impossible as it must have on this day all those years ago, I can’t help but believe Jesus has his eye on us specifically. Who can better understand the cross than the man who chose it? Who better to hold us close in our loneliness than the man who was left to suffer all alone? Nobody, not one human being on this earth understands a dark Friday more than Jesus, well before anyone thought to put a ‘Good’ in front of it.”   –Jen Hatmaker, When Treasured Things are Dead

Walking with Mary Magdalene

The wisdom of those who are mixed up in suffering and carrying it with them to the foot of the cross–How could I have missed this detail before? I don’t just mean those whose suffering coincides with Holy week, but those whose lived experience has been filled with suffering, who perservere in faith alongside of Christ in his passion, as long as that may take. 

I recognize that it is the Easter season, and I don’t want to stay mired down in the weary tones of Good Friday. I, too, celebrate that Christ won the victory over the grave, particularly as it is this very resurrection that gives me the solace this mama heart is seeking. Someone recently shared with me an insight that “‘Good Fridays’ don’t always happen on Good Friday and ‘Easters’ don’t always happen on Easter Sunday” (or something to that effect); and there is a great deal of peace in hearing this.

We read in today’s Gospel that Mary Magdalene, too, is focused on the empty tomb. Even when the risen Lord calls her by name, she cannot recognize him but believes him to be a gardener instead. It would seem that Mary’s witness is a much closer match to my experience than that of the empty tomb itself.  I can identify with Mary whose experiences blinded her to the reality that was standing before her and I do not want to stay there. In a new way, I hope alongside of Mary Magdalene that the risen Christ might be revealed to me at a time when I am able to hear him more clearly calling my name. 

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A prayer for approaching Triduum:

This is where it seems to hinge, my resolve is weak.

The season of sparsity has drug on.

The voices in my head and the voices of the past, quiver,'Why have you abandoned me?'

Feelings of loneliness and doubt linger reminders of brokenness, abound.

Trudging toward Triduum I join the Body of Believers in this solemn walk reminding myself, again, that in death I am born to eternal life.

Entering into the mystery grasping at the tactile, earthen bits of our story--faded palms, feet in water, gnarled wood, thorns, incense, sand, silence.

Ushering in with great relief--light, colors, Baptismal waters, gleaming white garments, blooming flowers--life where life had ceased to flourish.

My pace quickens my heart is eager to enter in.

Amen.

Katie Cassady, Unexpected Honey

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