Tag: fulfillment

Veiled in the Ordinary

Veiled in the Ordinary

Things aren’t always as they seem to be.

The sacrifices we’d like to make aren’t always the ones we are offered.

The fruitfulness of our lives can’t always be seen exteriorly. In fact, we, the insiders of ourselves, cannot always see what is being borne from our lives. In the mundane, ordinary moments of our lives, there rests a significance that we cannot comprehend. Perhaps it is a gift that we cannot always see the weight of the moment and yet it seems necessary that sometimes we do see the particular importance of today, this specific moment, and the way it has a weight that goes beyond what we can presently feel.

The significance of Christmas resonates through the centuries. Yet two thousand years ago, something beautiful and ordinary took place. A child was born. While angels rejoiced, magi traveled, shepherds proclaimed, and a common stable was embraced in a heavenly glow, the momentous event was soon, once again, cloaked in the veil of the ordinary. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus didn’t float through life, walking on clouds or being obviously different from everyone else. Instead, Christ’s life is marked by instances of the veil being lifted, a glimpse given of the reality of underlying glory. Then, the veil is carefully drawn again and life continues with the same significance and yet appearing to be quite ordinary.

In our persistent seeking for the extraordinary moments, we often muddle through the ordinary. I can delight in hosting a meal and then get bogged down in the stress of bringing the details to life. I can be swept away by the ideal of home and then balk at the challenging opportunity to make it into a sanctuary. The veiled ordinary moments are what comprise the primary weight of our lives and yet it can be so burdensome to really enter into these moments, to trust in their necessity even while we are blind to their signficance.

When the glorious heavens changed back to a dark Bethlehem night sky, when the magi left their gifts and journeyed home by another way, and when the shepherds wandered back to their fields, what did the Holy Family do? While being critical lives in the unfolding of salvation, how did they wrestle with the uncertainty of their lives, the nighttime feedings and the unexpected flight for Christ’s life? Most of Our Lord’s life is shrouded in the secretive veil of the ordinary. He grows in age and wisdom is the offered summary of eighteen years of His life. The quiet of the quotidian wraps the Holy Family’s life in a gentle, secretive veil, like the inner lives of most families.

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Punctured With Grace

Punctured With Grace

The other day, I was surprised when the thought ‘it is good that I am single’ came into my mind. Yet in sitting with these words, I recognized there was a truth found in them. It occurred to me while in the chapel and I found that the truth was seen primarily in how much I desire them not to be true.

Over the past few years, I’ve realized that something interesting happens when a group of people is asked to introduce themselves to the rest of the gathering. Understandably, many people introduce themselves by referring to their spouse or children or even the number or kind of pets they own. Right out of college, I could get away with listing off my siblings, but the more time passes, the more odd it seems to include them in my sixty second about me for a group.

However, what I deeply desire is to have an identity that is solidly rooted in being the wife of so-and-so or the mother of whomever. The idea of having a person I can always show up to things with or children who become the focus of the conversation rather than me sounds incredibly alluring. I’m not trying to downplay the difficulty in these ways of living, but many aspects of it fill me with great longing and deep desire. For all the hard found in that vocation, there is an abundance of beauty and grace found there, too.

It is in light of those particular desires that I was realizing my singleness is a gift from God. One I hope will not continue forever and yet is most assuredly a gift.

Why?

Because my very hope and desire to have an identity shaped by my relation to a spouse or children shows how desperately I still need to root myself in Christ. The goodness of the Lord is found here, in my current situation, and I am being given a privileged chance to become more assured of my identity in the Lord. I don’t get to hide behind attachments or people who I very much desire to be part of my life. And that ever-present ache can be a piercing reminder of my need for God, one which can’t be assuaged by cradling an infant or a date night with my husband.

It is incredibly, boldly present from the fact that my students address me as Miss (or Mrs. but I am reminded of their wrongness when they do it, even if I rarely correct them) to the fact that I’m not helping children through the serving line at family gatherings. The gaping ache can, if I permit it, become a place the Lord can fill, a place of pure desire surrendered to God, recognizing my own inability to fulfill myself. It can be become empty hands, waiting to be filled, trusting they will be filled, and yet acknowledging the goodness of still being empty.

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Leaning into the Longing

Leaning into the Longing

“What could you possibly want?”

I had just given a talk in prison about how the Lord calls to us and yet how there are so many other voices calling to us as well. The goal, I said, was to listen through the cacophony and follow the still, sure voice of God. Afterwards, the small group I was leading commented on my talk, saying they didn’t know I could speak like that. Then we delved into the small group discussion questions. One question asked what other voices we listen to apart from God. I shared that sometimes I listen to the voice of comparison, which causes me to focus on what other people have that I wish I had or experiences they’ve had which I have not.

“What could you possibly want?” one of the guys in my small group asked, with the most sincere look of befuddlement on his face. “I heard you talk and you spoke like no other girl I’ve known. What could you want that you don’t already have?”

This sincere question struck me in two different directions. One aspect was that I should be grateful for the many gifts I’ve received and stifle more ardently that insidious voice of comparison. Having just given a talk about how we should listen to voice of God and not the other voices clamoring for our attention, I was forced to consider how often I do not do that very thing. Here was someone in prison asking what else I could possibly want when seeing a glimpse of my life. And I couldn’t argue that I lacked much considering my position in life.

Yet the other thought that came to mind was surprise that to someone I seemed to have everything. I wanted to pour out a lengthy list of all the things or experiences I long for yet do not have. Marriage, children, a job that completely satisfies me, a published book or two, the perfect work-life balance, the ability to run a marathon, a large built-in bookshelf with a ladder like in ‘Beauty and the Beast’, a perfectly planned upcoming vacation, no mortgage, and the list could go on and on. However, I wanted to tell him that even when one follows Jesus, there are still longings we have for other things, even if we strive to live an ordered life. The desires we experience should be responded to in such a way that we are led to reach for goodness, truth, and beauty instead of making us ungrateful for what we have by focusing on what we lack.

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Though The Fig Tree Does Not Blossom

Though The Fig Tree Does Not Blossom

On one hand, I like to think of myself as rather mellow, a calm person who is generally unruffled. This seems true when I get to the end of the day and have no dramatic stories to tell. Instead of exhilarating experiences or woeful sorrows, I tend to have rather little to say about the day. In fact, sometimes it seems preferred when I arrive at the end of the day and there is no drama, good or bad, to recount. In these moments, I think I am a balanced, staid teacher who has completed her duties for the day.

Yet, on the other hand, I see that I can go through the gamut of emotions in a single week. I can feel frustration and rage at a student’s insolent response. I perhaps experienced sadness over a student’s hatred of the Church or a traumatic experience they have shared. Or maybe I have felt despair, a desire to give up and seek any other profession than the one I am currently in. In the course of a single week, I can plan for next year to be better and I can find myself searching random missionary positions or job postings anywhere else. I can be both sad to see my seniors graduate and uncertain if we will all make it to the end of the semester with our sanity and goodwill intact. It is in these moments, when I survey the emotional landscape of a preceding week, that I believe the calm affect is a total lie, one I tell myself in order to not pay too much attention to the ferocious swinging of the pendulum.

These experiences, of great, immoveable calm and tremendous swirling of feelings, cause me to wonder which is more me. Which one am I more truly? Or am I both? Are all humans simply both, some perhaps more one than the other? I think I’m steady, but maybe it is a steadiness born of fear to move. In a recent conversation with a friend, I was led to wonder what would make me leap into something new. If I refuse to move unless I know all of the answers, then I may always find it easier to be rooted.

My seniors have a sort of privileged position, even if wrought with uncertainty and stress. They must leap. Perhaps they won’t leap as far as they could, but they cannot remain where they are. We won’t take them back the following year and they cannot simply add another major as one could do in college. Next month, we will wrap up, wish them well, and then firmly close the door behind them, never to be opened in the same way ever again. Rarely does such a situation happen in life again and even more rarely would this situation be considered good.

They must leave.

And I?

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Whatever God Chooses Should Be All the Same to Us

Whatever God Chooses Should Be All the Same to Us

I didn’t expect to feel sadness at a wedding.

Anything near tears, I assumed, would come from the overwhelming joy of seeing a good friend get married. And while I was definitely happy, I was startled by the profound loneliness that pervaded my heart, even as I sat in a pew with beloved friends and was surrounded by many people I knew. Grateful that my friend was receiving that for which she had long prayed, I discovered a sorrow that I didn’t want to find at that time or in that place. The human heart frequently seems inconvenient, but I’ve found that leaning into that is more helpful than ignoring it.

Near the beginning of the liturgy, I heard the priest proclaim a single word in the midst of a longer prayer. He said “home” and I was immediately asking the Lord where my home was. Looking over the priest’s head, I saw the crucifix, arms stretched wide and side pierced, and within myself I heard Him say that my home was there. In His side, opened so that mercy could pour out, was my home, my refuge, the only place I belonged on either side of Heaven.

As my blog slowly moves from being thoroughly unread to something that people I know and don’t know read, I find myself hesitant to ever speak of being single. Some of my former students occasionally look at my blog as do co-workers, and it feels odd to share this particularly deep desire, even if it seems obvious or assumed or commonplace. Yet it also feels odd to share so many other parts of my heart and then withhold speaking of the vocation I feel called to, simply because God hasn’t fully answered that prayer.

I’m a melancholic and as such I am accustomed to longing. One of the most enduring longings has been for marriage and a family. It isn’t my only desire, but it is the one that seems the most fervent. This newly married friend is one I often spoke of this longing with, as we questioned when it would be fulfilled and wondered how it would happen. So I understand to a degree why this wedding also filled my heart with a bit of sadness. It was because my compatriot had what she longed for and I was still waiting, still hoping, still wondering when and if it would happen.

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Roots and Wings

Roots and Wings

In the movie Sweet Home Alabama, there is one line that has always stood out to me.  The main characters Jake and Melanie are talking about their past and present, the ways life has changed from when they were high school sweethearts to their current situation of estranged spouses.  Melanie expresses her confusion about loving her life in New York and yet returning home to find that her hometown fits, too.  Jake then says, “You can have roots and wings, Mel.”

So often my own heart is caught in that same clashing of different longings.  I want to fly away and yet I want to be home, grounded and steady.  One moment I’m desiring to be a missionary in a far-away land and the next I want to stay in my cozy bedroom, reading and considering life.  One day, I’m wanting to buy a home and make it my own oasis.  The next day, I am wanting to be detached of all earthly possessions, living simply and being prepared to fly off to wherever whenever.

Roots and wings–the desire to be secure and the desire to be free–mark the desires of the human heart.  We want to be home, but not confined.  We want to be free to wander and yet not be lost.  All of it, flying or remaining, hinges on the longing we have for happiness and contentment.

Not that I complain of want; for I have learned, in whatever state I am, to be content.  I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound; in any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and want.

Philippians 4:11-12

I am not quite like St. Paul yet, able to find contentment in whatever situation I find myself in.  Perhaps my students would even be surprised with the restlessness that is within my heart.  I am slow to act, yes, making changes at a glacial speed.  And yet…change is what I often long for and deeply desire.  What is the solution? Continue reading “Roots and Wings” →

Controlled Burn: A Song of Longing

Controlled Burn: A Song of Longing

Recently, I came into possession of Alanna Boudreau’s “Champion” CD.  And I’ve been listening to it on repeat pretty much since then.  As with all CDs, there are some songs I like more than others and certain lines in songs that move me more than others.

Her song “Controlled Burn” is one of the songs on repeat a bit more than others and I want to highlight a couple of the lines that stand out to me.

“And I ache, I ache, I ache / When I see all the nothing / That could have been something / That should have been you”

This line is perhaps the most perfect summary of these months of summer and maybe even the past year.  From the silent retreat near the beginning of summer to my sister’s home visit to being on the brink of school beginning, I have felt an ache for the nothingness that surrounds me.  Sometimes I am a bit fearful about the judgment that will come at the end of my life and how I will need to answer for all of my time.  The “nothing” that I did should have been replaced by the Lord, by perfectly following His will in all things.  Someday I will regret that wasted time even more than I do now.

I’m not saying that every moment needs to be filled to the brim with productivity.  Americans, however, aren’t particularly good at true leisure.  We binge watch TV shows, waste time on our phones, and fastidiously document our lives on social media.  Obviously, these are all generalizations, but our inability to truly embrace leisure is evident.  So when I say I waste time, I don’t mean I neglected to work, work, work.  Rather, I was isolated too much, preferring to spend time on my own rather than setting up numerous coffee dates or road trips or nights out with friends.  As an introvert, it is an easy hole to fall into and an even easier one to justify. Continue reading “Controlled Burn: A Song of Longing” →