Gratitude, round 2

The sheer volume of What Must Be Done lately has completely buried me. I am worn down, tired, and frustrated. Summer school is supposed to give the kids structure (so they don’t sit in the house fighting all day) and me time to work and see to my own “oxygen mask,” but it hasn’t worked out that way this summer.

So it’s a good thing for me to be intentional about gratitude—because, left to my own devices, I would only grouse.

I am grateful for:

Sightings of my (secular fiction) book “in the wild”–this one is Rhode Island, but I’ve gotten these shots from Colorado, California, Chicago, Florida, Oklahoma, Michigan, New Jersey, and more. Anxious book mamas can take a deep breath, seeing those shots.
Wine dinner with my husband–what a lovely evening!
Daily giggles from the Daily Buzz my chromosomally-gifted daughter does at school as part of her self-awareness, self-reporting, executive functioning IEP goal.
My patio and back yard. I’d live our here if I could.

Oh yes…and this.

DONE with driving lessons! We have a third licensed driver in the house… FINALLY.
Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com

What are you grateful for today?

The more things change…

If you notice the copyright on this, it comes from 1986. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose 35 years is not a huge length of time. Nonetheless, it’s been more than a generation, and we’re still bickering about the same things. That feels a little disheartening to me.

The rest of this quote says, “These wounds will be healed only by greater solidarity with the poor and among the poor themselves.” Solidarity is a scary word. A lot of us live in a pretty significant bubble, which allows us to view the problems of others in an abstract way, rather than as something concrete and heartbreaking and intensely personal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no paragon of virtue in this respect. I’m no better at solidarity than anyone else, despite my best intentions. But it twinges my conscience and forms my approach to the political and social issues that so preoccupy modern discourse.

Freedom and Fraternity

There’s a lot in this section of Fratelli Tutti that should make us squirm in America. In #103, Pope Francis reminds us that freedom and equality are insufficient without dedication to concrete love of neighbor. Without making a political (he does use that word) priority of taking care of each other, liberty is nothing more than “living as we will, completely free to choose to whom or what we will belong, or simply to possess or exploit.” Liberty, as God intends it, is directed toward the welfare of the other.

And then, of course, there’s the excerpt above. What follows it is a reminder that efficiency is often at odds with the common good.

In recent years, I’ve become deeply convicted about the fundamental flaw in the whole idea of “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.” #109 addresses this. Plenty of us don’t, in fact, need help from a “proactive state,” because we’ve been born into functional educational systems and families that can get us to the doctor.

We all stand on the backs of our parents, grandparents, teachers and communities. Within our communities, we support each other; this is good. It WORKS. I certainly didn’t need any of those COVID stimulus checks, and how to use them in a way that best served the common good was a matter of no small debate in our household.

But it’s a mistake, and I would argue, contrary to Christian discipleship, to assume that simply because many of us don’t have need for a proactive state means nobody does. Look at the injustices and inequalities that litter America’s history:

These are just a few structural realities whose consequences have rippled down through history. If we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us, then some among us are fighting a way, way bigger battle than others.

These are hard realities to accept in a time of such profound division. But the Cross IS hard, and the Holy Spirit gave us a shepherd at this time who’s calling us to confront the things that make us uncomfortable.

The Face Palm

My small faith group discussed the Gospel of Mark last week. It was the first time I’ve tried reading a Gospel as a unit, rather than a chapter at a time, or more likely, whatever is in the Lectionary.

A few things struck me. One was that I really understood for the first time the term “itinerant preacher.” Jesus was all over the place. He arrived on one shore of the lake to be greeted by a demoniac, and as soon as he sent the demons into the swine herd, the residents said, “Thanks but no thanks, can you just go away?”

Another thing that stuck out was the “Messianic secret.” I know that’s a thing, but reading the whole Gospel at once, I thought all those times he told people not to tell others what he’d done, he might actually have been less concerned about theology and more with very human exhaustion! He was mobbed all.the.time. He couldn’t get away from people. It must have been suffocating—crowds all the time, wherever he went. No privacy, no recovery time. It gives this introvert heart palpitations.

But my favorite insight came from one of my friends, who really clued in on this phrase from Mark: “He sighed from the depths of his spirit.” (Mark 8:12) She said, “It’s like being a parent. The kid comes and asks this thing AGAIN, and you’re like, ‘How many times do we have to go over this? How do you still not get it?’”

For the past five days, she and I have been sharing various Kid Moments that caused us to “sigh from the depths of our spirit.” It’s a running joke that I’m sure all parents can appreciate, but it resonates at a more serious level, too. There’s something bone-wearying about parenthood at times. Sometimes, you laugh at things because the other alternative is to weep. You look at the thing your kid has said or done and you think, “I have failed as a parent.” And it’s far too late to go back and correct the thing you know you did X years ago to cause it.

It’s been an enlightening experience, reading Mark as a whole. The Gospels are so sparse—so many details missing—and we hear them so often that it all sort of fades into “yada yada yada.” This exercise made it possible for me to see around the edges and glimpse a hazy, indistinct, yet concrete *realness that makes it all seem more… well, MORE. I don’t think I will ever hear Jesus, in any Gospel, rail on the blindness of the Pharisees or disciples without instantly recognizing the emotion he’s expressing.

Henceforth, in my spiritual life, this will be known as “The Face Palm.”

In Pursuit of a Thankful Spirit

Years ago I used to participate in a blog hop where bloggers, mostly women of faith, listed their blessings weekly, counting toward a thousand. It was a good spiritual exercise, but it was never great blogging–for me, anyway. You have to have a pretty strong charism for pairing words and images to make such a thing interesting to readers, and I never had the knack.

But gratitude is a much under-exercised muscle, and every so often, when my world starts circling the drain, I need a reset in gratitude. Such has been my reality lately.

So as I grind back into gear here at Intentional Catholic, I am going to devote my Thursdays to making note of what is good and beautiful and holy in my life. And if it doesn’t make much of an impression on the online world, well, that’s okay. This is for my own growth in holiness.

But even so, I invite anyone who comes across this post, whether by blog, Facebook, or Instagram, to take a moment to reset your own heart by highlighting a blessing or two in the comments.

Today, I am grateful for…

Family Bible Study with a good friend and her kids.

A fun and engaging summer school program that keeps the kids occupied and having fun at the same time.

The wisdom of middle age, which allows me to recognize that sometimes relationships can’t be repaired, and removal is necessary for one’s own spiritual and mental health.

Growth in understanding in the most important relationships in my life.

The magic–and I use that term in its holiest, most God-directed sense–of the play of light and dark along the Katy Trail, as the slanting rays of the morning sun pierce the woods in beams of light and set the soft grasses aglow with celestial light.

The iridescence of a blue bunting, racing me along the trail before darting sideways to rest in a tree.

The deep, pervasive stillness of a historic country cemetery–a place to retreat and be still with God, surrounded by buzzing bees and warm breezes.

A nap on a memorial bench beneath the wide, shady branches of a walnut grove.

The tiny fawn, smaller than the gravestones, crossing the lawn of the cemetery, which dropped to its knees and stared at me from behind a tuft of unmown grass and eventually, after deciding I posed no threat, proceeded to sniff and explore the flagpole before darting off with an ungainly, adorable gait.

Growth in trust (however far I still have to go) that no matter how screwed up everything in the world seems, God can use those events to nudge things closer to holiness. That I don’t have to carry the weight of trying to figure out how to fix things that are far too big for me.

Going around and coming around

Background image by arielrobin, via Pixabay

I’ve been absent quite a while from this site. In the past few months I published a novel, which has consumed every bit of time and energy I had and some I didn’t. But it’s time to start easing back into posting here.

This week, my small group is reading the Gospel of Mark in its entirety, and this verse really stuck out at me last night. It seems to speak eloquently to the times in which we live, as a reminder that what goes around, comes around. I don’t read this as a moral judgment, i.e., “This is how God works,” but instead as a clear-eyed recognition of the way the world works. What we sow, we will also reap, and probably more of it, whether it’s fair or not.

The good news is, it’s true of generosity and kindness as well as judgment and bitter words.

The Meaning of Mercy

Photo by Mauru00edcio Eugu00eanio on Pexels.com

A few years ago, when Pope Francis declared the year of mercy, I spent some significant time pondering this on my personal blog. I’ve fallen off the radar here of late because, as we all either know or need to learn, “balance” means sometimes one thing has to give to make room for another, but eventually it will swing back. My writing life is buried right now under fiction work, with a book releasing in the next few weeks, and I simply haven’t had time to come over here.

So I went back to my personal blog to harvest a few more posts to fill in the gap, and the mercy posts really struck a chord. So here you go.


I once attended a workshop on writing liturgical texts in which the presenter challenged us to take out all the church-y words and see if anything of substance remained.

“Mercy” is one of those words. A throwaway word, overused into gibberish. At least, it has been for me. So when I heard about an extraordinary jubilee year of mercy, I went, “Mercy? Why mercy? What does that even mean?”

It was that last question that turned out to be the most important. The problem of this simple, hackneyed word has been gnawing at me until I’ve realized that prising apart its significance for me—both as a recipient and as a giver—is meant to shape the coming year.

I have always viewed mercy as synonymous with forgiveness. The mind, hearing “mercy,” goes straight to sin and unworthiness: I’m a pathetic, undeserving wretch whose sins have been forgiven despite my general loser-li-ness. (I can coin words late at night with the best of them.)

The idea of confronting our own brokenness is really important, especially in these days of “what’s right for you may not be right for me.” Built into our identity as modern men and women is a deeply-held resistance to admitting that we treat ourselves, our fellow human beings, and our world with careless disregard for our/their/its innate dignity. Mercy speaks to the humility of admitting we do crappy things sometimes. It speaks to the recognition that we deserve just consequences for our actions and instead we’re blessed—in fact, showered—no, deluged—with goodness. Goodness we usually fail to recognize, because we’re too busy asking for more, more, more.

But if that’s all there is to the word “mercy,” then what’s up with those “corporal and spiritual works”? How do they fit into all this? What do they have to do with undeserved forgiveness?

I’m not the only person wrestling with this question. I’ve been reading anything I come across on the blogosphere, and this single quote is the one that caught me:

“Mercy is being willing to enter into the chaos of another.”

I thought, Yes! That’s it! I understand that!

Image by Kasun Chamara from Pixabay

It’s far easier to pass judgment on the guy on the street corner begging for money. To say, “He doesn’t really need it, he’s trying to take advantage of people’s gullibility.” But mercy says, “Okay, I will enter into his chaos by contemplating the decades of days and hours and influences I can’t possibly know, the countless steps that brought him to this particular intersection on this particular day, and pry my brain open to admit that I simply cannot know whether he is or is not truly in need, and as such I am compelled, by virtue of his dignity as a human being, to give him the benefit of the doubt…and help him.”

Mercy.

It’s far easier to cling to the distance separating us from the chaos in the Middle East–to say, “We can’t possibly ensure that Those People are not terrorists; therefore it is only prudent to keep Them all out and send our riches Over There so Someone Else can take care of Them.” But surely I’m not the only one whose conscience whispers, If not us, who? Where is there a place of refuge for so many? Mercy responds to worldly prudence with a call to dismantle the geographical wall we’ve been hiding behind for two centuries and enter into the chaos that the rest of the world already knows so well.

Mercy.

I’m finding that mercy, far from being meaningless, is an enormous, life-altering word. Terrifying, too, because it shoves me out of my safe, familiar, comfortable world full of safe, familiar, comfortable platitudes. To live mercy is to enter into the chaos of families shattered by abuse. To enter into the existence of stomach-turning poverty that, if viewed head-on, would force me–even chintzy, never-spend-a-dime-if-you-can-make-do-with-a-penny me–to confront my own excesses and make changes I don’t want to make.

Mercy, I am beginning to realize, is a shortcut to a darned uncomfortable conscience.

The chicken and the egg (or: double standards in Christianity)

“Hey,” my husband whispered to me before Holy Thursday Mass. “I forgot to tell you. Pew research did a new survey and the number of people who go to church is below 50% for the first time ever.”

My first reaction was: And Christianity will blame the secular culture instead of looking in the mirror and examining whether our own failures are the problem.

Actually, it’s probably a chicken-and-egg situation. The culture is definitely getting more hostile to religion. But then again, religion keeps giving more reasons for the hostility.

I know. Them’s fightin’ words, but painful though they might be, I think they’re fair.

The trouble is that the Gospel tells us we’re SUPPOSED to expect hostility from the world. But somehow, we’ve translated that into a persecution complex. We never stop to examine our own attitudes, words, and behaviors for how well they reflect the Gospel. We just assume that any pushback we encounter must, by definition, be the culture’s problem rather than ours. It couldn’t possibly be that we are misrepresenting our faith.

Meanwhile, Christianity fails to recognize how incredibly uneven we are in HOW we choose to stand at odds with the world. There are these huge double standards.

Like: Christian culture is pro-life, EXCEPT when it requires taxpayer money to support people most at risk of feeling the “need” for abortion (because of generational poverty and inequality of opportunity, etc., etc).

Like: Christian culture is pro-life, except when it infringes on “personal freedoms” (cough-cough-masking).

Like: Government should stay out of my business, except when it’s about homosexual relationships or abortion, and then of course it’s the government’s business, absolutely.

Or: Sexual assault and harassment are sinful, but how dare we ruin the life of the accused? (Never mind the life of the victim. Whatever. We’ve been sacrificing them for millennia.)

Or: Honesty and integrity are fundamental to Christian belief—they’re in the Ten Commandments—but how many people have wholeheartedly, even rabidly, embraced a lie about stolen elections that has zero basis in fact?

I’ve been trying not to write these kinds of posts lately. Nobody needs me haranguing them; it’s not particularly effective at anything except making people mad. So I’ve been trying to focus my posts here on working out my own spiritual journey instead of lambasting everything that’s wrong with the world. I have spent this Lent praying for “enemies,” and more importantly, for the heart to do so authentically while remaining in union with God’s will. So much is happening in my heart this year—I am journaling it, bit by bit, but I’m deep in the weeds and I can’t synthesize it yet.

But there are times when my frustration comes out. And this is one of them. And maybe, after all, Good Friday is not a bad time to have our collective conscience stung.

God is Not A Trained Monkey

Another post from my personal archives today…. (Lectionary reference dates from 2014)


Two vignettes:

Photo by WELS.net, via Flickr

One: A priest I know once talked about throwing open the Bible and taking whatever your eye (or finger) lands on first as a sign from God. He called it Bible abuse. A provocative statement, given that probably every one of us has done that at some point.

Two: Long ago I read about a person who invited a couple of missionaries over for dinner. They would not eat from the dishes being passed around the table until they had prayed over each one and received Heavenly “clearance” to proceed. At first, the author was offended. Then he decided this was a sign of their total dependence on God to tell them what was and was not safe.

To me, these two examples illuminate how easy it is to twist faith and try to turn God into a trained monkey that performs on command. We’ve been trained, by a fascination with larger-than-life stories of faith, to expect big and dramatic communications from God–and to esteem blind, uninformed faith in defiance of reason.

And I realized that fascination with these kind of stories encourage the mindset that fed my struggles with anxiety in the first place.

There are certain catch phrases in religious conversation: God’s will and radical faith, for instance. In my brain, over the course of years, that twisted into: if you aren’t willing to leap off a proverbial high bridge, trusting God to catch you, your faith is not good enough. Never mind what you know about gravity. Having faith means being willing to do what doesn’t make sense to you, because God’s way is not your way.

It’s that whole billboard thing again: the expectation that God is going to arrange a message so clear, so obviously aimed right at you, that you can’t possibly mistake His meaning.

God certainly can and sometimes does work that way, but if you expect all divine communication to consist of a “billboard,” you’re going to spend most of your life thinking God has nothing to say at all.

In this weekend’s readings, both Elijah and Jesus went looking for God in solitude. In quiet, in the absence of stimulation and demands on their attention. In extended stillness.

Hearing the voice of God is a skill that takes practice, and if you neglect that practice even briefly, you start to lose it. If I say that modern life is not conducive to hearing God, it sounds so trite as to render the words useless, but that doesn’t make them any less true. How many people fill every waking moment with noise–and sleeping moments, too, for that matter? The radio has to be on in the car, exercise must be accessorized by ear buds, and white noise generators are supposed to facilitate sleep.

Photo by albedo20, via Flickr

There’s a reason people throughout history have gone on silent retreats and even lived as hermits. It’s silence where you learn to recognize God’s tiny whispering sound in the midst of the earthquakes and thunderstorms that make up life. It’s in the emptiness that the puzzle pieces begin to click. And it’s when you start to be comfortable in the void that you start to realize it’s not a void at all, but a wonderful sense of peace, and the beginning of a new way to know God.

I do believe there are times when God speaks in a thunderclap or a burning bush–proverbial or otherwise. The vast majority of the time, though, God’s voice speaks from within, through the utterly ordinary stuff of life. But you only recognize it if you’ve invested the time to listen to the silence that makes the connection in the first place.