Mawwage.

It’s been a long minute since my last post.

In all honesty, even though it sounds like a cop-out the only explanation I have for my long absence from the blogosphere is life happened.

I was recently engaged when my last entry went live, and with a wedding date of 6 months from the day of our engagement things just started happening almost as soon as I hit “publish.”  Even for a small wedding (37 people, including the bride, groom, and priest) taking place in 6 months, there was a lot of work to get done.

And then once we walked down the middle of my church, had some cake, and took some photos, we were in full swing to prepare for my BigSis’ wedding later that same summer.

From there, life just became a blur.  A happy, blissful, stupidly cute blur.

Oh, and we got a dog.

On the 17th of this month, we’ll be celebrating 11 months of marriage — 11 months that I can only describe by quoting Pedro Casciaro:  “Dream, and your dreams will fall short.”  Because let me tell you, looking over previous blog entries where I was discussing my love life and my relationship with God (and sometimes both together), I realize now that everything I have experienced and endured while trying to follow Our Lord was His way of testing me in fire and refining me into the woman that would deserve the man I now call my husband.

I am a Catholic who had not one but two crises of faith (one in late adolescence and one in my early twenties) who grew up in the Catholicism of Opus Dei, and I ended up marrying an atheist who was raised in a Protestant home.

If anyone ever tries to tell you God doesn’t have a sense of humor, feel free to point them in my direction.  I’m well aware that describing the faith-dynamic of my marriage sounds like the beginning of a joke.

But it’s not a joke at all, and while I can see the humor in it and say that God really does have a way of making life turn out so weirdly and unexpectedly, I know in the deepest part of my heart that my vocation to married life (and eventually motherhood) means I am tasked with a serious lifelong mission.  And the fact that a man of science and reason, not of faith, was given to me by Our Lord and bound me in Holy Matrimony makes it all the more serious to me.

In First Comes Love, Scott Hahn states:

God knows it is not good for us to be alone .  He doesn’t want us to be alone.  It’s the oldest story in the world, and it’s written into our very human nature:  He wants us home.

As a wife, this is the point of my vocation:  to help my husband live as good and meaningful a life as possible so that we may eternally rejoice in God’s kingdom together. It doesn’t matter if he’s an atheist; not only is this one of my core beliefs, it is one that he has chosen to accept and, even without RCIA let alone the slightest iota of faith, one that he wants to support for my sake.

I promised my atheist husband that I would never beat him over the head with the Baltimore Catechism or the Compendium, that I would never make his conversion a requirement to be in a relationship with me, and that I would never force him to to Mass if he did not want to go.  In return, he listens respectfully to me when we debate about religion, he never ridicules or belittles my faith, and goes to Mass more often than other Catholics I know.  He has even held my hand while I’ve prayed out loud for guidance or for a special intention, and genuflects before stepping into our regular pew at my church.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine an “inter-faith” marriage working so well, even though I was open to the real possibility of it and readying myself for the challenge of being a practicing Catholic in a relationship with a non-religious person.  Our courtship and engagement together lasted 364 days (we chose to celebrate our first anniversary as a couple by getting married on the 365th day, and God saw that it was good), but in that short time I never once felt shortchanged on any level by our differences in beliefs.

When we discussed the direction in which we wanted to take our relationship and I stood my ground and said I wanted to get married and commit for life, and if he didn’t like that then we should part ways sooner rather than later, he respected me enough to tell me that he was also of the same mindset.

Later when we talked about getting married and I told him that marriage to me meant getting married in the Church in any way possible, he told me that as long as I was marrying him he was cool with it.

Because of his acceptance and willingness to support me in my faith — not only did he come, and still continues to go, to Sunday Mass with my family and me whenever possible, he also made no argument about doing the Archdiocese-mandated Marriage Preparation course and had a long one-on-one chat with our parish priest — we were blessed with a dispensation to get married in my parish chapel with the full Catholic Rite of Matrimony.

Yes, you read that right:  I married an atheist with the full matrimonial liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church.

And he never complained about “doing it my way.”

I may not have married a Catholic, but I am truly blessed in my marriage.  My husband’s name is Pierre, the French form of Peter, and he truly is the rock upon which I continue to build my house for God.  It does not matter that he is an atheist:  what matters is that there is love in his heart, and enough of it for him to support me in any way he can while I go about my faith each day.

He has seen me at my worst and knows where I have been and what I experienced before I found him, and he has forgiven and accepted and loved with all his heart.  And because of this, while I will never force a conversion upon him out of respect for his free will, I will always pray for him and always trust that God holds him in His hands just as He has held me.  Continuing to live my faith and follow God so that I am a strong example of Catholicism for him and for our future children while being respectful of his beliefs and of his free will is what I must do to keep our union harmonious and to keep God in it.

When we were dating, Pierre walked me home in the night even when we lived on different ends of the city.  By the graces given to us through our marriage I know he will walk with me to my Father’s home in Heaven.

Holding on to what I’ve got

At various points in my life, I’ve felt like certain songs defined exactly what I was going through at that exact phase of my life. We’ve all experienced this phenomenon before and we all have a mixtape of songs that for one reason or another we felt were all about ourselves.  Now, I’m not entirely sure what song defined my life at the end of 2015, but I can tell you what happened and how I emerged in 2016 to be howling “Livin’ on a Prayer” into my hairbrush while powerstancing on my bed.

In the last few months of 2015, I actually went through a crisis of faith. Having already gone through similar experiences twice before, you’d think I would have figured out how to prevent them from happening again – especially with all the tools and formation I received from growing up in a devout Catholic household steeped long in theology, philosophy, and Catechism. Having faith was just as normal to us as breathing and the reminder to “just keep praying” was heard as often as “clean your room.”

But I was and still sometimes am a spoiled and rebellious child, and when things don’t go my way I get upset with God. And, depending on what didn’t turn out the way I wanted and how it didn’t turn out, I can get pretty temperamental and stubborn. Yes – right up to the point of throwing in the towel on my faith and going off to a dark corner to sulk and ignore God. “You gave me free will,” I once said in a Parthian shot to Him, “so I’m going to use it the way I want to.”

This last year in particular, on the two bookending occasions of 2015 that broke my heart, the pain I really encountered after abandoning my post at the Foot of the Cross was far greater than the pain I thought I’d had while abandoning myself to the Lord. During Advent, a season in the Liturgical year during which the rest of the Christian world is preparing to greet the Holy Child at Christmas, the hours I once spent on prayer were given over to weeping and gnashing of teeth.  (No, really — I think I cried more in 2015 than I ever have in all the other years of my life put together.) For the first time in many years I didn’t receive Communion at Christmas Mass or on New Year’s Day, and for the first time ever I found myself really considering just breaking off from Catholicism altogether and giving up entirely on religion.

But I couldn’t jump off that side of the ledge upon which I teetered for many weeks, because if there was one thing I learned from my human father it was that even if your faith is in shreds, if you can find a piece of it that’s still big enough to hold on to you really should. And if there was one thing I learned how to do in 2015, it was how to look at something for what it really was and discern if it really ought to be in my life – to use logic and rationale instead of just blind faith to figure stuff out.

I’m definitely no expert at it because hey, I kind of just started doing it, but I’m beginning to at least get enough of a handle on it to start using this skill more often in my life. And when I took that long, hard look at myself on Epiphany Sunday, I realized I was a little too good at letting go: too good, because up until now the rejection, betrayal, or pain from one person was enough to make me let go of everyone in my life – including God.

After all, pure logic would dictate that if I believed God put people into my life for some unknown but good reason, then I should believe He took some of them out of my life for an equally unknown but supposedly still good reason. Along that same line of thought, twisted logic would say that if I wasn’t happy with anything, including God, I should just chuck it all overboard. But that didn’t make sense to me when I thought about it, because in a way that was saying I believed in free will but only when it was convenient – in other words, only when good things happened – and that whenever one of my choices, even a good one, cut me to the core it wasn’t on my hands but on God’s.

Once I figured that out, I spent most of Epiphany Sunday this year in dialogue with myself about all of this. I moved through the day talking myself through all the reasons why I kept abandoning my Catholicism when relationships didn’t work out, when I lost meaningful and formative friendships, or when I didn’t succeed at something I set out to do. I tried to determine why failed relationships and soured friendships had the effect of pulling me away from God so much to the point where the inevitable crash-and-burn in these instances unfailingly results in me uprooting myself from my Catholicism and putting my relationship with God on hold while I try to deal on my own.

The answer, in a nutshell, was that my efforts for others were often fuelled by fear – of being left behind, inadequate, forgotten, or expendable; of being seen as imperfect or ordinary; of being perceived as too outspoken and needy. I bent over backwards for many people who, in retrospect, I can now see as people who took me for granted, overlooked me anyway, or didn’t appreciate my acts of love beyond seeing them as things that got done for them.

Now, this is not to say that every past experience was wholly negative. In every relationship and friendship I’ve had that’s now just a memory, there really are good times. But the pain of the bad times and my own selfishness prevented me from keeping what was good and finding solace in the blessings I had received in being with those people. And because I couldn’t see the blessings I’d been given, I could not see God’s goodness – and so I abandoned Him, too, when I abandoned those relationships.

Before evening Mass on Epiphany Sunday, I went to Confession for the first time in many months and, perhaps for the first time in many years, I made it a good and thorough one. (I apologise profusely to the rest of the line – but if they haven’t experienced this kind of Reconciliation before I hope one day they will, because such a Confession can be one of the most beautiful and liberating experiences in life.) After I did my Penance I remained in prayer, taking the time to be in conversation with the Father I had ignored for so long to ask him for the grace I needed to do three important things.

One To rebuild and strengthen the good relationships that had been damaged by conflict with and fallout from others, because these were the people who stuck by me when I was too selfish and too wrapped up in my own pain to see the gifts of comfort they were trying to give me.

Two To see which connections in my life were damaging and toxic to the good relationships I was trying to heal and repair, and to eliminate them from my immediate sphere of concern – but without malice and without anger.

Three: To learn how to recognize good people when they came into my life as people intended to enrich my experiences and bring out the best in me – people who would inspire me through their own ways of giving to give of my time, talent, and treasure to others not for my own security and assurance, but for the greater good and well-being of others.

My father taught me to believe and to have faith, but my life experiences have taught me to question and discern, and writing has taught me that the simplest questions lead you to the most complete answers. So if I still believe in God and still have faith, then what I have to do with it is ask myself: what has God given me, who has God given me, why these blessings have been put into my life, where I can use them to fix my life, and how I can use them to bring joy into the lives of others?

All three things have been going rather well since Epiphany Sunday, and I’m glad to say that the third in particular has already brought blessings into my life in the form of new friends who encourage me to bring forward what’s best about myself and inspire me to share my authentic self with them and the rest of the world. I’m really looking forward to connecting more often with them and to building up strong friendships with these incredible individuals. I truly do believe their paths crossed mine at this moment in time for good reasons, and I know that it’s up to me to make something good come out of these encounters and connections. Some of them believe in the same things I do and others believe in very different things, but I appreciate them and love them all the same because they each bring out the same good qualities and talents in me I’ve ignored or kept hidden until now.

So how does this all lead to me singing Bon Jovi into a hairbrush while standing in a powerstance on my bed, and why is “Livin’ on a Prayer” the song that defines my life of renewed faith, hope, and love?

Well, even though Bon Jovi didn’t mean it as a song of praise, it rather succinctly sums up how I’m moving forward with my life: holding on to what I’ve got, understanding that what I do have really is quite a lot, and remembering that inasmuch as I can and should take agency of my own life I do need my faith and keep praying. I can’t live on just a prayer indefinitely, but when everything else disappears there’s always a way to find it all again through keeping my faith.

The first day of the rest of my life

“You are never too old to set another goal or dream a new dream.”
— C. S. Lewis

I turned twenty-five on Sunday.

I spent the day before my birthday and the day itself with some of the people I love best, and am looking forward to a few friend-dates in the next week to get together with the ones I couldn’t see this weekend.  When I was growing up my birthdays were almost always exclusively family affairs, as having a summer birthday meant the majority of the few good school friends I had were away on family vacations.

As far as milestones go, it’s the only one I’ve had so far where I’ve felt like I’ve really come a long way from where I was the previous year.  The first half-and-a-bit of 2015 has been all about self-discovery and growing up – about coming to terms with what I’ve experienced in the past and learning to let it go so that I can move forward with my life.  I’ve grown stronger in all aspects of my life, even the ones where I was already doing pretty well…but I think the biggest difference between then and now is that I’m finally starting to be strong for myself.

Going the distance – not just physically but also emotionally, mentally, and spiritually – is something I’ve had difficulty with for my whole life.  I’ve got a few victories under my belt, but I’ve never really  been able to say I’ve done everything I’ve set my mind to do.  And something huge that I’ve come to realize in the past couple of months is that truly going the distance really is an issue of mind over matter.  I can set my mind to anything, but I have to keep those goals at the forefront of my focus if I’m going to achieve what I’ve set out to do.

The other thing I’ve realized is that part of keeping presence of mind regarding those goals is doing them every day.  Long-term investments of any kind take time to give you a return, and when it comes to personal goals and personal improvement there are no shortcuts.

Hot damn though…once it starts paying back, it really starts paying back.    

I can’t really quite describe how it feels to wake up, throw off my duvet, and stretch my legs any which way and see muscle lines where there used to be nothing but wobbly flesh.  It’s not just the fact that my legs are actually starting to look good – it’s the fact that now I can run farther and faster on them, and not just because they’re stronger.  I’ve lost enough weight to realize I can run – and, even more surprisingly, that I like running.  In fact, this former borderline high school Phys Ed failure enjoys running so much that she’s decided to train for a half-marathon next June.

But there’s something else that I’ve wanted to do for much longer than running a half-marathon – something else that symbolizes going the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual distance that I see before me.

Montreal is home to Saint Joseph’s Oratory – founded by one of Quebec’s very own saints, Saint Frère André, whose close relationship with Saint Joseph earned him not only the nickname bon ami de Saint Joseph but also the reputation of a miraculous man whose devotion allowed the intercession of Saint Joseph to cure seemingly countless pilgrims seeking relief from various afflictions.  Pilgrimages to the Oratory are still fairly common, and because it is built so high up on the hillside the most direct route upwards is an impressive series of stone steps.  In between the two stone staircases is a wooden one reserved for pilgrims, specifically those who wish to complete their journey to the Oratory on their knees.

I was meeting one of my closest and oldest friends for Mass last night at the Oratory, and the walk there from my new apartment is literally only ten minutes.  As I stood at the bottom of the hill, texting Elizabeth to let her know I was on my way up, I decided to make the kneeling pilgrimage up to the Oratory.   Yeah, I know I’m weird – who wants to celebrate their milestone birthday by getting to church on time by going up a hillside of ninety-nine exposed wooden stairs on their knees when it’s almost thirty degrees outside with the sun on their back?

But that’s what I did.  With a young couple praying the rosary up ahead of me and a young woman behind me making the same pilgrimage in place of her wheelchair-bound mother waiting at the top, I climbed 99 steps on my knees – praying all the while and giving thanks for everything with which I Have been blessed so far in my life.

Just as I can’t quite explain how it feels when I see strong healthy legs in the morning instead of twin cans of Pillsbury biscuit dough, I can’t quite explain how it felt to stand at the top of that staircase, using the last few spare minutes before Mass to see, quite literally, how far I’d come.  After Mass, I stood at the top of them again with Elizabeth, looking at the sky as the last of the light from the sunset faded to the black of night…and as we descended together I passed the memory of myself – and all my past fears, insecurities, failures, and hurts – where I left them on my way up.

I’m pretty sure there’s at least one of each on every last one of those stairs.

I went to bed last night a newly-minted twenty-five-year old who felt, for the first time in her adult life, like she truly was older, wiser, stronger, smarter, and more loved.  And while everyone in my life who celebrated with me, in one way or another, helped make me feel that way I had to make myself believe that by taking the first ninety-nine steps out of my past and into my future.

stjoesThe view of North Montreal from the Basilica level of Saint Joseph’s Oratory at the end of sunset.

Love over everything else

The United States legalized gay marriage nationwide today, and I’m not afraid to say that I’ve hit “Like” on more than one friend’s status update and on more than one news service’s headline about this social milestone.

I’m also not above sharing the fact that a person I’ve known and called a friend for some time now sent me a text message asking me why on earth would I give this breaking news a thumbs-up, remarking by way of justification that,

“…it’s wrong and goes against what we believe in, and as a woman who someday wants a family you ought to think hard about how this threatens your future position as a mother in a society that accepts this sort of thing.  Your hypocrisy is disappointing, to say the least. ”

Anyone who follows this blog knows I wear my faith and my views on my sleeve, and I do tend to get a lot of mixed feedback about doing so.  That’s only to be expected, though, since the Internet is public — but that’s besides the point.  Of all the negative messages I’ve received about my more worldly views, this is probably the one that angers and hurts me the most.

It’s not just because I have a lot good friends who are homosexual and a few who are bisexual.  It’s not just because  a good friend of mine is a heterosexual whose divorced parents are both now with same-sex partners.  It’s not just because one of my closest friends came out to me before they came out to anyone else, including their own parents.  It’s not just because a dear friend of mine is searching for a way to make their homosexuality coincide with their faith, determined not to give up or abandon either one because they believe both are equally important to who they are as an individual.

It’s also because I have never, ever believed in using my sexual orientation, religious affiliation, or gender to say that I am in any way “better” or “holier” or “more deserving” than anyone else – and it pains me to know that members of my faith community (both immediate and extended) so easily forget what the Lord says about love.

And He has quite a lot to say on the subject, but perhaps the most familiar points to just about anyone  are, “Let those without sin cast the first stone,” as well as, “And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love.”  He also asked us to, “Love one another as I have loved you.”

Oh, and while we’re considering those points, it would serve us all in good stead to remember that “Christian” means “follower of Christ,” and “Catholic” means “universal.”

Thus…

Is it truly Christian or Catholic for any person or group of people to say that those who are “different” aren’t worthy of the same rights, privileges, and advantages which “the norm” may claim unopposed?  Do we truly love others as we have been loved by an infinitely wise and loving Creator when we use that same Creator’s words against people who are in some way, shape, or form not exactly like us?  Can we really say we believe love is the greatest virtue when we allow our faith and beliefs and ideologies to get in the way of everyone being able to share their lives with other people in freedom and security?

If being a follower of Christ means following His example in daily life and if being made in God’s image means reflecting some measure His infinite love, then the hypocrisy lies not in being supportive of friends and/or family members whose lives are remarkably different than our own.  The hypocrisy lies in viewing anyone who isn’t heterosexual – and therefore supposedly “normal” – as being unworthy of acceptance, friendship, support, and yes, love. 

And that’s because the bottom line about humanity in this faith, the very heart of this belief system, is that our God became human so that He could die for all of humanity.  The Incarnation and the Crucifixion did not occur to save a select handful of souls, but rather every soul.  That is the extent of Divine Love, and nothing of human design or conception – not even the most deeply entrenched prejudices or misconceptions concerning the diverse complexity of any aspect of humanity – can change that.

Seeing through the rain

Walking home in the rain from the cinema last night, I was waiting to cross the boulevard and thinking about how much life has changed in the last year.

I realised I’ve found more of my adult self in this last year than I have in all of the years combined since my twenty-first birthday, and a lot of that is down to having learned how to love and live for another person.  I’m not talking about living for somebody else in the sense of depending on them for validation and worth and purpose, but rather in the sense of being able to unite your own dreams and plans and goals with those of another person…simply because you share a love with them that is genuine and runs deep.  You open yourself up to a whole world of good and bad when you love somebody that way, but if it’s all meant to work out with them all of the good makes up tenfold for everything bad you have to experience.    You love them enough to want them to be happy, and trust that they see the same thing when they look at you.

Seeing him smile and hearing him laugh made me feel happy because it meant he was happy.  But what made me even happier was waking up every day of our relationship and knowing that I was one day further along in human plans that finally seemed to line up with God’s plans…that I was making a choice of my own discernment and will to fulfill a call to a relationship heading towards marriage and family.

I told him more than once that I love God more than him – for no other reason other than because it’s the truth.  What made me happiest about the relationship we shared was the fact that it fit into what I knew God wants for me, which meant my personal happiness was finally firmly rooted in someone eternally constant and loving.  The human heart is fickle, as we see over and over again whenever we love and lose, but God is love.

The catalyst to the breakup was a decision made in his part that caused confidence and trust to fall out on mine, thus causing the worst kind of pain initially:  a selfish one that’s rooted in pride and a false sense of betrayal.  I say it’s the worst kind of pain because its root makes it hurt even more than it should, because it makes us blind to anything else but how it makes us feel.  This kind of pain demands angrily of the human love, “How could you do this to me, after all I have endured for you?”  and, equally angry, of God, “I was doing as You commanded then, so why must I suffer now?”

While we can never truly know why people do what they end up doing, deep down inside my heart I know that what he chose to do was not fuelled by anger or spite or a desire to cause pain.  What made me feel his intentions as painful actions was the fact that loving him made me want to love God less so that I wouldn’t lose my relationship.  I was deeply unhappy and struggled in trying to reconcile the two – in trying to have both even though the more I tried, the more unsettled I felt.  But when I saw how this same conflict was beginning to manifest itself in our relationship, I felt a different pain.  It was the kind that comes not out of feeling betrayed, but rather out of knowing that what you’re asking of the person you love can’t be given to you without it being detrimental to their own pursuit of fulfilment, peace, and happiness.

To those two infuriated demands I mentioned above, I never really got an answer to the human question – though I did get an answer to the divine one through a long and difficult discernment.  I asked God why, and He replied, “Because I have commanded you to love others as I have loved you.  Because I am Love, and made you in that image.”

I am still fighting through both kinds of pain.  The first pain slows down the healing, which strangely enough motivates me to take the second kind of pain and offer it to God in the hope and trust that He can tend to all of my wounds.  I have that hope and trust in Him because through all the worst storms of my voyage so far, He offered me His hand to help steer my ship towards safe harbors.  Through every difficult and painful experience, I have come to see God’s hand in my life, and until last night I never knew how to explain that revelation in human terms.

But today I finally can, because the analogy came to me last night as I stood in the rain at the intersection of that windy boulevard.  In the same way that I can see the shape of the wind as it blows through the raindrops right before they hit the pavement, I can see the shape of God’s hand in how my life experiences sculpt me into the daughter He envisioned long before I began to take on human form.  I was made in His image, not He in mine, and if choosing to learn how to love sacrificially — as He did, on the wood of the Cross — is how I may better reflect that image, then may He heal me so that one day I may again try loving another person as He has loved me.

You are the potter, and we are the clay

Kintsugi or kintsukuroi is a sub-form of Japanese ceramic art in which broken vessels are repaired using precious metals.  Translated, respectively the words mean “golden joinery” or “golden repair.”

Imagine how it looks:  you can see the past brokenness of the vessel, because it is highlighted by the use of gold or some other precious metal.   Yet, because it is repaired in such an obvious way, it takes on a whole new kind of beauty and a new uniqueness.  The imperfections of the broken shards are emphasized, but the metal that does so makes the piece whole again.  The brokenness becomes a part of its history and a part of its beauty.  Its worth is restored, or even raised, despite the damage being so obvious and plain.

For me, this year’s Holy Week was a rough conclusion to a long and difficult Lenten season.  For the last forty days, and particularly for the last month, I have been trying to fix all kinds of brokenness inside me.  At times, especially in the last half of Lent as I have struggled to mend in the wake of breaking up, it seemed that every time I came close to have a big enough part of myself repaired to truly start moving on, a hammer blow swung down out of nowhere.  Triggered by some memory or keepsake, each swing broke me down all over again and left me discouraged, enraged, and sorrowful.

Looking into myself and seeing all the pieces is difficult.  It’s difficult because I do want to be perfect, even though I know I am only human and therefore intrinsically flawed.  It’s difficult because I often can’t see beyond the shards:  I can’t see how they fit back together and I can’t see that each piece is still there…so it’s hard to believe that I really and truly am whole, even if I am in pieces.

Sitting in Saint Patrick’s Basilica this Good Friday afternoon, during my prayers I was struck by the realization that no human action broke me.

It is true that I made a choice not too long ago that hurt both myself and one I love dearly, and I’m trying now to accept the fact that despite the love that remains I might never have the chance to love him again.  Human error and human action on either part aside, though, I did ask God to show me how to follow Him.  And for me to truly do that, my heart had to be broken.

I think C. S. Lewis explains it best in A Grief Observed when he says,

“God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn’t. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.”

I know where I went wrong and I know where I could have done better.  I know when and where I was in the right to demand more, and when I was being selfish in doing so.  I know who I trusted more and who I should have trusted most.  But in the end, it all boils down to how this experience of heartbreak and pain has brought me one step closer to Home.

If God broke me with one hand, it was so that He could mend me with the other.  All I have to do is pick up the fragments and place them in His hands, for He has the gold to put them back together.  And when I am ready, I will have been made new again and whole again.  Highlighted by the way He will repair me, my former brokenness will be proof of His love — the same love that led to the Cross, at whose foot I stand today while I await the Risen Lord.

Have a blessed Easter, and may peace and happiness enfold you.

 

The Demands of Love Himself

In spite of all my talk recently about following God’s will because I want to be a good daughter of His, like any child I’ve also spent a fair amount of time in the last couple of weeks being sulky, angry, and fighting rebelliousness towards Him. We’re almost done with Lent – in just two weekends, the Christian world will be celebrating Easter – and yet for these past two weeks I have felt no further out of the desert than where I was when Lent began.

I’ve only just written about how the road to Heaven is hard, and that God makes no attempt to hide this from us. I know this and I try to understand it more each day. I try to keep in mind that I’m not going through all of these life events for nothing: that He has a purpose for me, and such a purpose must be something huge if He needs me to go through so many trials and challenges to get there. It must be something wonderful if He asked me to sacrifice my last relationship – my best relationship – in order to follow His plan for me.

Yet despite knowing this, here I am: at some times furiously angry with God, and at others, sobbing in His presence – but all the time demanding to know why He would ask me to give up the person with whom I was planning on spending the rest of my life…why His divine love would demand that I set aside my own human love…why the path He has laid before my feet to happiness had to start with one of the unhappiest events of my life since laying my father to rest.

The sorrow and pain of having to end my last relationship still twists, visceral and acute, inside me. I haven’t really worn makeup in the last two weeks because the tears well up at the most unusual times outside of when I’m alone in my room: they come when I am walking along a windy boulevard; when I am praying; when I am alone in the washroom at work…even when I am in the middle of the church taking part in Mass or going to Confession.

Yesterday afternoon when I was talking with one of my parish priests about being angry and upset at God, he told me to reflect on one of the Lenten season’s earlier weekday readings about Naaman.  (As a side note, this was one of those instances wherein God’s sense of humour was made evident to me, because this was the reading on the day I ended my last relationship.  Nice one, Father.)

The leprous warrior and champion of Aram, Naaman was told to simply wash in the River Jordan to cleanse his body of the disease. Thus his call to obedience and to prove his faith in the Lord was a far easier demand than the ones made on others, such as Abraham (who was asked to sacrifice his only son as a burnt offering) or Moses (who led the Israelites through the desert and all of its trials for forty years only to die without ever entering the Promised Land).  Though at first he was indignant, thinking that surely the True God would have cured him in a grander way than that, Naaman eventually did as commanded…simply because his servant pointed out to him that by that logic, if Naaman had been asked to perform a more demanding task, he would have done it without question.

And yet the task before him was a simple, ordinary one that he did every day without second thought.

God could have called me to sacrifice myself and follow Him in the way He asked my father, or any other disabled, invalid, or dying person, to do so. He could have called me to leave behind all my worldly goods and possessions to serve under Holy Orders, or to serve him in a lay vocation. He could have asked of me a great many things that are undeniably much harder and much more demanding, and yet all He did was ask me to give up the guy I really thought was going to be The Guy.

And for what, exactly, did I sacrifice my last relationship? Not for any new vocation, but for the same vocation to which I already knew I was being called. Not for any other human relationship to take precedence, but for my relationship with God to truly and immovably become my first priority. Not to fall in love all over again with anyone else, but to fall more in love immediately with God…the same God, as C.S. Lewis says,

“…who needs nothing, loves into existence wholly superfluous creatures in order that He may love and perfect them. He creates the universe, already foreseeing…the buzzing cloud of flies about the cross, the flayed back pressed against the uneven stake, the nails driven through the mesial nerves, the repeated incipient suffocation as the body droops, the repeated torture of back and arms as it is time after time, for breath’s sake, hitched up.. … Herein is love. This is the diagram of Love Himself, the inventor of all loves.”