Today we attended a Baptism for the newest member of the Body of believers. We also acknowledge that our firstborn has been a Christian for several years—part of the body of believers. What a magnificent and challenging reality that is to live into. We know this because there are days this reality is difficult for us to live into (am I right?). It probably feels less than magnificent, too. That is why we continually reach for books, music, Sacraments, service projects—anything beyond our own words to illustrate and reiterate the importance and beauty of what this means for her—and for us.

Complex & beautiful

Today’s feast of Our Lady of Sorrows is an annual reminder to me that what we have asked that our child be a part of is as complex as it is beautiful. I literally remember squirming at my kitchen table as I scheduled her baptism date because it seemed like kind of a depressing day to welcome my child into the Church (as if the reality of Mary’s suffering or the Paschal Mystery are any less relevant on any other day). I distinctly remember having this impulse not to have her initiated into something that foreshadowed…heartbreak.

Given a healthy amount of distance and afterthought, I can hear my good intentions as well as the complete backwardness of this line of thinking.

This faith that she has been baptized into is not a secret weapon against suffering. Applied appropriately, it is more or less a guarantee that heartbreak will be a part of the equation for her at some point, when the world she hopes for and the one she sees, do not touch. What I think this faith is, is our best attempt to be able to look reality in the face and remain moored to a foundation bigger and more hopeful than ourselves in the midst of that suffering. In dynamic and nuanced ways, perhaps we are condoning for ourselves (and our children) an intentional experience of wrestling with the things that would otherwise break us and leave us calloused if it weren’t for the truth we hold at our core that this is not the whole story.

Think for a minute about the complexities of truths that we are holding in tension right now—maybe just skim the headlines from today.

These are the days I imagine my own mooring is at work, and probably if we’re honest, when we do the most wrestling. Suddenly, the occasion to celebrate and remember her entrance into the church becomes an opportunity for me to renew my own baptismal call as ‘priest, prophet and king.’ I know she’ll enjoy her baptismal dinner and re-visiting pictures of the day she doesn’t remember.

Saying ‘yes.’

More than that I want her to be surrounded with healthy, whole folks walking around with their hearts outside of their chests, ready to give them away to people in dire need of love, acknowledgment, eye-contact. Although we are still talking about my daughter’s baptism, I recognize that ultimately I am talking about my own as well. I also know that I am of far greater use with my heart engaged than I am with it tucked safely away—hard as that is to put into practice. So I’ll leave you with Annie Dillard’s words that encapsulate the courage necessitated by this bold ‘yes.’

Why do people in church seem like cheerful, brainless tourists on a packaged tour of the Absolute? … Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us to where we can never return.”

—Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters (New York: Harper & Row, 1982), pp. 40-41.

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This month, I get to celebrate a birthday, an anniversary, a funeral, and a Baptism. Four distinct snapshots of a life—my own and others’.

Birthday

It’s no secret that July is my favorite month: watermelon, sweet corn, sunflowers, bees, books, writing, hikes, pools—and very little structure on the calendar. What’s not to love?! In a way I don’t feel I’m able in other months, it’s fair to say I savor the long-lit, days. It also holds the tension of the very fleeting present in which I know these days don’t last and the knowledge that I have to enjoy while it’s here—the academic calendar rolls out, and once again our time feels as though it’s not our own. Not that it ever was, but isn’t it delightful to imagine that we have any effect on time?

I just finished another of Shannan Martin’s books, Falling Free (which was fabulous!). In it, she describes her rocky (and providential?) transition from hobby-farm-mama to industrial city-living neighbor, married to the chaplain of the local jail; where her neighbors often wear their lives on their sleeves and call her to solidarity with them in a way that offers a more beautiful view than she had hoped for. She describes this process in humble detail of the ways that God had seemingly called her down, and simultaneously picked her up.

“Living small is not about having less, but being less– less respected in the eyes of the world, less successful, less wealthy, less esteemed, less you. Less me. And more Jesus. Here, in this abundance of less, where more of us is stripped away, we’ll uncover the person we were made to be, the one created in the image of a God who sank holy feet in to our human mess.”

― Shannan Martin, Falling Free: Rescued from the Life I Always Wanted

Funeral

Last week we attended a funeral for a man who had adopted—and been adopted by–the organization where I used to work. Of all things, one of my kiddos had requested attending a funeral because she had no memory of having ever attended one. The man whose life we celebrated had no family to speak of, only friends and acquaintances from over the years. His funeral was held in the orphanage where he had grown up.

I was struck by the simplicity of the service, and his life all around. He was poor, absolutely. And yet, his life was rich in many ways. His days were often scheduled by meals and Bible studies going on around town. He got around on foot and public transportation. Given the amount of time he spent in churches and Bible studies, he had a love for Jesus and a pretty unfiltered commentary on the services he attended. He held in high esteem the restaurants and organizations that put on holiday meals for those who otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford them. He was a loyal friend and completely himself.

Anniversary

In light of Shannan’s reflections and our friend’s funeral, I cannot help but wonder if the edges of my favorite month are perhaps a bit too, shiny? Where is there room for surprises beyond reveling in what I know? Do I allow God to come along side of me with hidden gems, or am I satisfied with my own, curated life in which I know what to expect and what I deem as lovely?

Maybe that is the challenge for my next trip around the sun, our next year of marriage—to savor each season, even those I’ve written off as mundane, dark, structured, or generally less glossy, so that I might be delighted in ways that I don’t expect.

Baptism

Recently I’ve been reading through the Catholic Spiritual Gifts Inventory, by Sherry Weddell and marveling over her explanation of Baptism—and all Sacraments of initiation– and how we are explicitly given the very particular charisms and gifts of the Holy Spirit that we will most need in our lifetime on these occasions. As I look ahead toward my nephew’s Baptism this weekend, I wonder how God will surprise and delight him with over the years.  Specifically, what charism awaits only him, that he might be equipped to offer his best self to God and to the world?

Whether extraordinary or simple and humble, charisms are graces of the Holy Spirit which directly or indirectly benefit the Church, ordered as they are to her building up, to the good of men, and to the needs of the world.

–CCC, 799

Sneaky Truth

This is phenomenal news and this angle has evaded me until this summer.

These perspectives are enhancing my own right now. I’m grateful for the space to mull them over in my heart and mind this month. I wish the same nourishment for you. Here’s to calling deep upon the particular gifts that we might build up the people of God all who surround us, and that we might be also be rescued from the lives we always wanted.

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There’s been a long radio silence on my end—not for any particular reason, just the ebb and flow of the end of the school year and change of seasons that make a gal’s creative juices available at all times to all people and my words don’t always make it out onto the keyboard.

I hope this finds you well and easing into June—the way I suspect June is supposed to be entered into.

Rested

May has held a long list of guests in our humble abode, and it’s been a treat. As much as I would like to change some of the dimensions of our space, I keep hearing from the people we invite under this roof, that they’re comfortable and rested when they leave, and there’s not much of a higher compliment I can think to receive. Fresh eggs, honey, and couches go a long way, apparently. So, when the itch to look at bigger spaces, or more updated floor plans strikes, I’m trying to remind myself of the gaggle of folks who have commented (without prompting) that they aren’t coming to see our home, anyway.

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• We split our bee hive in May—which means we now have two (!), and they still swarmed –so we were busy with our busy bees for a few days.
• We’re in the throes of Vacation Bible School, which packs a punch for being a morning camp!
• I’m sticking to my first ever, self-imposed summer schedule to coordinate our comings/goings, as opposed to my own free spirit that doesn’t mind the daily question: What are we going to do today?
• Doing hard things

One of the things on our list is Mass one day each week—not because it comes naturally, but because Mass is actually still a challenge for our gang. Mostly this has been successful, as our parish has a beautiful chapel where we celebrate weekday Masses, and the shorter version of Sunday helps, too (most of the time).

Community

Last week we walked in during the opening song, as usual. Breezing by families with many (more) children who seem capable of gauging time—unlike the mother of my children. Frustrated as I was by our inability to arrive promptly, I was touched by the community we found gathered that day: A lady in my Bible study, with a wonderful Polish accent, pulled out chairs for us to sit with her; my kids exchanged the sign of peace with my good friend’s parents, a woman from my bee club caught me to talk bees over donuts; ladies in line for donuts caught wind of our plan to play at the park, and gave us directions, since it was right behind her home.

Nothing groundbreaking or spectacular, but I think what I was struck by was a deep sense of place. It has taken a long time to notice this feeling, and I’m not sure it’s a permanent fixture, but I noticed it, and I liked it, and I hope that from time to time, I contribute to it.

Pentecost always comes at a such a timely place in the year, doesn’t it? It’s the literal breath of fresh air that pushes us into a new opportunity and pace.

Recommended Reading

In other news, I am part of a launch team for a new book by Shannon Evans, an author I really enjoy. It’s called,Embracing Weakness: The Unlikely Secret to Changing the World.  She writes from her own experience as a protestant missionary turned Catholic Worker, and includes insights from wisdom figures like Jean Vanier, Fr. Greg Boyle and Brene’ Brown. Beautiful, introspective thoughts and questions worth sitting with, so add it to your summer reading list. *As a side, I’ve discovered my library has a ‘Suggested for Purchase’ page on their website. I have requested A LOT of titles for purchase and have never been turned down, so even if your book budget is low, consider requesting from your library so you (and others) still get a chance to enjoy.

That’s all I’ve got. Happy June. Happy reading & (hopeful) slowing down.

Cheers to unannounced visits and backyard iced tea.

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It’s been a long time since I sat down to write. That’s probably telling; a reminder that I need some quiet time, and a reflection of the pace of the day- to-day.

Sound familiar?

For whatever reason, February is jam-packed for us, annually. As a practice, this is not something I try brag about—actually it’s a bit of a phenomenon because we are pretty intentional about not overdoing the schedule business. However, this February has gotten my attention because of its richness, because of its shortness, because of its paradox:

-Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day

-Preparing a talk on (spiritual) blindness, while I have (physical) sight.

-Learning about baby sleep rhythms, while my kiddos sleep through the night

-Watching bees buzz in and out amidst the lingering snow on sunny afternoons

-Preparing for baby chickens, while we maintain our suburban address

-Finding myself captivated by the themes that have been hammered into my consciousness recently by news, or episodes (yes, I’m on the This Is Us, bandwagon), that this life is to be crumpled up, worn out and spent, because ‘we do not know the day or the hour.’

-Visible reminders by Burpee seed displays alongside of snow shovels, that death does indeed give way to new life

Shoots

The seasons are changing, and with them, the Liturgical season. Reminder upon reminder that however tightly we cling to what is, things change… and new shoots arise.

I have been sitting with the image of the shoot of Jesse (Is. 11:1)—an image used particularly during Advent readings, as well as some Lenten traditions. They derive from the once-vibrant kingdom of David, which was demolished and afterward referred to as a ‘stump’; a lifeless reminder of what once was. But what we hear during Advent and Lent is the geneology that led to the brave shoot– that what was prophesied will come to fruition, that even what was once unthinkable, will rise up with life.   

Grace

We have had the privilege of celebrating both Confirmation and Baptism with dear family friends in the past couple of weeks. Each celebration has served as a reminder in different ways that we are ultimately intended to be transformed—both in God/prayer and God through the experiences or our lives. As a rule, these transformations rarely take place as we plan, and never seem to leave us in the place from which we begin. It is in these experiences that we receive the graces for this transformation. In other words, this internal tug-of-war is (I suspect) is an indicator of transformation—pulling between what we are comfortable with and what we are being called to become. 

For more reading on paradox, head on over to Blessed Is She, where I am sharing a bit about St. Josephine Bahkita and the international day of prayer and awareness against human trafficking.

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