Just driving

Yesterday the kids and I were getting a bit stir crazy, so I packed everyone into the car to go for a drive. I do that every now and then just to get us out of the house and have a moment to clear my mind. As I drove, I restlessly flipped around the radio but couldn't find any talk shows or music that felt right. Finally, I looked down to see my favorite CD of the Rosary, and knew that that was exactly what I was meant to listen to.

I don't know whether it was the simple beauty of the violins in the background, or Fr. Groeschel's soothing voice, or just the fact that the children were calm and comfortable in their car seats, but as soon as the CD began to play I felt more relaxed than I had all week. And as I drove up and down neighborhood streets, saying the Rosary along with the CD, meditating on each of the mysteries of Christ's life, I began to feel overwhelmed with joy. The act of continuously repeating the simple Hail Mary prayer occupied the frantic, analytical part of my mind, freeing my soul to just wander and experience and feel. For once I was actually consumed with some small fraction of the profound awe and wonder that one should feel when contemplating the truths of Christianity: I felt indescribable appreciation for having any kind of contact with the Creator of the universe, for his death on our behalf, for the opportunity for our eternal souls to rest in the place of perfect joy and goodness, for the fact that God loves our children and our friends and family even more than we do.

The only fitting term to describe how I felt would be "spiritual ecstasy." Yet the irony was not lost on me that I was doing one of the most mundane things a person could possibly do: just driving a beat up old minivan around the empty streets of suburbia. What could be more boring, more lame? And yet, an act that to the outside world would seem to be the height of banality, led to the kind of thrilling joy that humans spend their whole lives searching for.

I think that that moment was a perfect encapsulation of the magnificence of Christian life: for the Christian, there is never an excuse for boredom or mundanity, because more excitement and wonder and beauty than we could possibly comprehend are always right there in front of us, accessible by nothing more than prayerful consideration of the truths of our faith. Once you've discovered God, the heights of human experience are no longer reserved for fleeting moments upon mountaintops or momentous historical occasions, but can be had any time or any place, even when you're just driving.

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Listening for the answer

Last month my mother-in-law had a little spiritual crisis. I've mentioned before that she has always had a solid, common-sense understanding of God and Christianity. But a series of events last month led to a sort of dark night of the soul. Her real estate business had been slow for a while, and a run of bad luck in January left her with very little income for the month. A lot of the people she knows believe that financial prosperity is a sign of God's blessing and, indeed, it seems that they have been blessed in that department -- they have booming businesses and swelling bank accounts. One acquaintance recently implied that my mother-in-law must not be praying correctly if her business isn't doing well, and it just about brought her to a breaking point to think that not only is she having trouble paying her bills, but that the situation could indicate that she has somehow fallen out of favor with God.

One night while she was visiting us, she got a phone call about the one deal that she'd thought was a sure thing, that she was counting on to help her get by for the next couple of months. The buyers backed out. The deal had fallen through. It was nobody's fault, just an unforeseeable fluke.

"What am I doing wrong?!" she cried when she got off the phone. "I tithe, I pray every single day, I love God -- so why is he angry with me?!" She wondered aloud about retirement, about the future, if her financial struggles would ever end. She wondered why God hadn't answered her prayers for financial prosperity as he seemed to have done with so many of her friends. "What am I supposed to think about this?" she asked.

I wanted so desperately to help, but didn't know what to say. We talked for a little while but I couldn't come up with any helpful advice. At the time I had just started praying the Liturgy of the Hours, so I asked if she wanted to join me for Vespers. She was too upset. This deal falling through was the straw that broke the camel's back, and she just couldn't even pray right now. She turned on the television to take her mind off the situation, and I opened my prayer book to find the right page for the day's prayers. Not knowing what else to do, I offered the prayer for her, hoping that God would answer her prayer to better understand her current circumstances.

I couldn't believe it when I saw the heading for the day's evening prayer: Psalm 49: The emptiness of riches. Before the first excerpt from the Psalm was a line from the New Testament to meditate on while the Psalm is read, Matthew 12:23: "It is difficult for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven."

"Listen to this!" I exclaimed, excitedly asking her if she thought this was an answer to her prayers. But she was despondent, saying she just didn't want to hear it right now. I fidgeted in my seat as I read Psalm 49, which directly talks about money and wealth. "You should really check this out -- what are the odds that this would be the reading right now?" I said as I read verse after verse that specifically addressed her situation.

As I continued with the readings, I saw that the prayers for that evening were a treasure trove of wisdom on worldly riches and the Christian life. There was so much food for thought there, it was frustrating to see that she wasn't listening. I raised my voice a bit when I got to the antiphon for the second part of the Psalm ("Store up for yourselves treasure in heaven, says the Lord") but she didn't hear.


My point here is not to make a statement about what exactly God might have been trying to tell her there, and I am certainly not criticizing her since she's certainly light-years ahead of me in her faith. My only takeaway was that, from my perspective, it seemed so clear that God was somehow reaching out to her in the midst of her anguish, that perhaps meditating on these scriptures might very well lead her to a breakthrough, to the comfort she desired. But she couldn't see it, because she'd turned away.

The story has a happy ending: my mother-in-law reports that she eventually felt better about her situation. It's really stuck with me, though, to have had the opportunity to see someone as faithful and spiritually mature as mother-in-law miss an opportunity to see what might have been an answered prayer because she'd turned inward in despair. I realized: if someone as naturally devout as she is can do that...I must do it all the time!

I thought of how frustrated an outside observer looking at my own behavior would feel to see me do the exact same thing: when I cry out to God in frustration, do I even attempt to then put myself in a peaceful state so that I might be receptive to any answer he sends my way? No. When I ask for help with a certain situation and look out for God's answer to my prayer, am I open to any answer that he might give, in any form? Not usually. So often I look out for an answer that fits my requirements, and probably miss answers that don't look like what I expected them to look like.

Since then, I've thought of this lesson any time I've been tempted to say that God didn't answer one of my prayers: did he not answer it, or was I perhaps not really listening?

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AREWP Day 44: Balance requires sacrifice

[AREWP stands for "A Reckless Experiment With Prayer." This is part of an ongoing series about bringing peace to my daily life. You can read the other posts on this subject here (scroll down).]


Last night my husband and I were sitting in the living room after the kids went to bed, chatting about our days over little bowls of chocolate ice cream, and I caught a glimpse of the half-folded basket of laundry I'd set aside in the laundry room. Then I thought of those last three bills I needed to pay, and remembered that I never did get around to replying to that one email. My instinct was to get up and meander over to my desk or to the laundry basket, but I sunk back into the couch and kept chatting with my husband instead. And I thought, "So this is what balance is like."

When I used to make my semi-monthly proclamations that I desperately needed balance in my life, what I was really saying was, "I want to do all the same stuff I'm doing now, but just not be stressed about it!" Yet another huge lesson I've learned from this experiment of scheduling life around prayer (instead of vice versa) is this:

Balance requires sacrifice.

I know, to a lot of people that's as insightful as saying breathing requires inhaling, but it was actually a revelation to me. Before my commitment to make the workday end with Vespers, I would have spent that time after the kids went to bed shuffling around to try to finish the laundry, pay those last few bills, reply to that email, and undoubtedly get sidetracked with all sorts of other things along the way. It would have felt too indulgent or wasteful to just put my feet up and spend a whole hour chatting with my husband! Especially because of my tendency to procrastinate, I would have felt like I "had to" forgo relaxation time in the evening to make up for not getting enough done during the day. But the realization that a natural life is a life with hard stops, that it is only in recent years through modern technology that we have even been able to throw our lives so far out of balance by extending our working hours at will, changed everything.

These days, leisurely breakfast time ends and high-energy activity time begins with Lauds (Morning Prayer) at 9:30; high-energy activity time ends and naptime/desk work begins with the Office of Readings at 2:00; and I do one final sweep to get any lingering projects to a stopping point before the whole workday comes to a close with Vespers (Evening Prayer) at 6:00. Do I always have everything done by the time prayer time rolls around? Nope. Am I often tempted to keep working into the evening to make up for not getting enough done during the day? Absolutely. But, I have realized, such is a life of balance.

Back in this post I speculated that the reason that pre-electricity generations spoke of a life of peaceful rhythm and natural balance is because, for example, a housewife living in 1890 couldn't do laundry at 10:00 at night if she didn't get to it during the day; that by virtue of having built-in hard stops like sunset and community-centered activities, they were forced to sacrifice a lot of the things they wanted to get done and simply rest. Mimicking this life as best I can, by allowing my day to be broken into times of work and times of rest by forces larger than myself, has indeed forced me to sacrifice a lot of the things I'd like to get done. And it has given me a life of balance.

I suppose it might technically be possible to achieve such a nice rhythm by using something other than prayer to provide hard stops; but, for me, I doubt that anything else would work. Here in our 24/7 world, there's so much pressure let your life slide out of balance, to sign up for "just one more" activity, to get "just one more" thing done each day, that with my notorious lack of willpower I'm sure I would have backslid into my old ways long before now with any other type of routine. But by anchoring my days around God by joining in with the universal prayer of the Church, by letting the rhythm of the Liturgy of the Hours be the guiding rhythm of my life, three times a day I am reminded that I only have one real to-do list, and it is short; that the little sacrifices I make to achieve balance are minuscule in the grand scheme of things; that my time is not my own anyway.

To be sure, I don't mean to imply that my life is now stress-free or that I don't ever struggle with challenging days anymore (anyone who read this post or this post knows that that's certainly not the case). But I will say that it all feels more "natural" than before. Letting go of the temptation to make every hour a working hour, structuring my days around prayer instead of around the frantic pace of the world, might not have made all the stress in my life go away, but it has brought me times of guilt-free rest to act as a counterweight to the challenging times. Life has a gentle rhythm that wasn't there before. Even though there are days when it's painful to sacrifice a couple items from my to-do list that I wanted to get done, even though I have more responsibilities now than ever before in my life, I feel that after all these years, I have finally found balance.

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Knock, knock. Who's there? A clue.

My post from Friday about St. Frances of Rome was supposed to be up on Thursday.

After a fun but completely mentally and physically exhausting day, Thursday afternoon I put the kids down for their naps and flopped into my desk chair for my daily quiet time. It was like a taste of heaven itself to sink into the comfy chair and experience the placid silence of the house. All the cares of the day melted away as I opened up a new document to share yet another way in which God has worked in my life. As usual, the practice of putting the words together, meditating on truth and beauty, almost instantly made me feel prayerful and relaxed. And then --

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK! DING-DING-DING-DING-DING!

I had not even finished the first sentence when the silence was shattered by loud banging at the door and then repeated ringing of the doorbell. I jumped to my feet and ran to open the door, only to see an empty porch. I heard giggling somewhere off to my right. Furious, I shut the door and went back to my desk. I couldn't believe they were doing it again: the kids next door had been ringing the doorbell and running for the past couple of days. The day before I had gone to their house and kindly asked them not to do it anymore, and they assured me they wouldn't. And here they were, doing it again. I muttered something to myself about it being a good thing they didn't wake up the children, and went back to typing (although a whole lot less prayerfully than before). I still had a good hour of naptime left, I thought, so it should be fine. And then --

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK! DING-DING-DING-DING-DING!

From upstairs I heard a quiet whining. They'd woken up all three children. As I heard the symphony of moaning work up to full-fledged crying, I realized that my coveted quiet time was now gone. Instead of enjoying a peaceful oasis of prayerful reflection, I now had three overtired, crying babies to tend to. The mental downward spiral began. Rather than see it as an ordinary childhood prank, I got myself all worked up about the idea that this was a personal attack, that they had done it solely to ridicule me and make my day a little bit harder.

I eventually caught the neighbor kids outside and went to talk to them. I was mostly civil, but that has a lot more to do with my non-confrontational nature than any sort of cooperation with the Holy Spirit. Once I was back inside, when I would catch glances of them through the window I would look upon them with scorn. I sent my husband an email that described them uncharitably. I couldn't wait until their parents got home so that I could see to it that these kids got in lots of trouble. I indulged in vengeful thoughts, thinking of how satisfying it would be to hear that their parents got really mad at them.

At some point God gave me the grace to take a step back and look at myself, and what I saw wasn't pretty. I realized that if I were to put into words the feelings that went through my mind every time I saw the kids whisk by my window on their scooters, it would be something like, "You little jerks! I was trying to have some quiet time for prayerful reflection to write about how we can show Christ's infinite love to others even in non-ideal circumstances, and you punk kids ruined it!"

Ah, spiritual maturity.

So often I hear about inspiring spiritual concepts, and when I ponder them from the safe confines of the pages of a book I am on fire to make them a part of my life. I thought of St. Frances of Rome as I started writing that last post and thought, "Yes! I too want to show Christ to the world! I want to let God work through me to show love and beauty to others through my actions!"...and then, when the books were put away and I was back in real life, as soon as it got a little bit painful for me, I was out. I wanted to show Christ's love to the world on my terms, when I could see the situations coming and prepare for them -- perhaps by volunteering at a soup kitchen or giving more money to the poor or making my husband's favorite meal for dinner. But I wanted nothing to do with that whole showing Christ to others thing when I had been the victim of a prank that pushed me to my mental and physical limits by making me deal with a situation that I was not prepared to deal with.

It would have been painful -- really, really painful -- to truly die to myself in that situation and look at my little neighbors through the eyes of Christ, to ask Mary to lend me her heart and look upon them as if they were my own beloved children. But how might the situation have been different if I had? What kind of big impression might it have made on those kids if I had thrown some cookies in the oven and invited them over so that we could get to know one another better (perhaps even sharing stories from some of my own childhood pranks), instead of just glaring at them through my window? Since I opted for the less painful option (again), we'll never know.


When I went back to my desk the next day to finish the post, I shook my head and smiled when I read St. Frances' biography. Talking about St. Frances of Rome had been something of an afterthought, a seemingly random topic that just popped into mind because I wanted to update my blog but couldn't think of anything else to write about. I'd seen her story before, but the only thing I remembered was that she was an example of someone who truly brought God into her marriage and selflessly loved others. That was the only point I was trying to make in the post.

But given the way that day had played out, it was like God hitting me over the head with a 2x4 when I re-read her story and saw that probably the most salient aspect of her life was that she selflessly followed God' will even when it was very painful, even when it was not her will. When I saw the question her confessor once asked her that marked a turning point in her life, it just about jumped off the screen at me:

Are you crying because you want to do God's will or because you want God to do your will?

I thought of myself the day before, just about crying over being derailed from supposedly doing "God's will" through quiet reflection and writing, and felt like maybe I needed to look over my shoulder in case Jesus was standing right there. God could not have made himself any more clear to me had he been there in person to tap me on the shoulder. Point taken.

It was stunning to see why St. Frances of Rome had come to mind seemingly out of the blue the day before. God had a message for me, delivered through her. I smiled when I got to the end of her biography and saw the recommended prayer for her intercession. As I said the prayer aloud, I felt the warmth of knowing that she was looking out for me that day, praying for me and for anyone else who's ever lost sight of what it really means to do God's will:

Saint Frances of Rome, help us to see the difference between what we want to do and what God wants us to do. Help us to discern what comes from our will and what comes from God's desire.

Amen.

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One beautiful dream

Ever since I discovered the story of St. Frances of Rome (via Adoro te Devote) I have felt more drawn to her than to almost any other saint. Probably the best adjective that most people would use to describe her life is unfair. From early childhood she desired nothing more than to be a nun, yet when she was 13 her parents had her married to a wealthy nobleman. She was quiet and introverted, yet her in-laws expected her to be vigorously involved in the proper social circles. She lived in a rough time where upheavals within the Church and plague ravaged her city. She often found herself surrounded by friends or relatives who didn't understand her or even ridiculed her. Her home was looted and members of her household staff were tortured and killed. Not one but two of her beloved children died.

And yet, even in those dark days of suffering and strife and death, she showed Christ to the world. The more difficult things got, the more she turned to God. Through her passionate faith and selfless dedication to others, God was able to work in her life, and eventually in the lives of many people who knew her.

I highly recommend that you read the whole summary of her life, but I wanted to share one little gem that brings a tear to my eye every time I think of it. Though her marriage was arranged and originally unwanted on her part, Frances was a devoted wife. After more than 35 years of marriage her husband became ill, and she nursed him as his time on earth drew near an end. He spoke to her on his deathbed, and his last words before dying were:

I feel as if my whole life has been one beautiful dream of purest happiness. God has given me so much in your love.

Whenever I hear people talk about concepts like "success" and "achievement," I often think of that quote. For those of us who are married, what better goal, what more worthy achievement could there be than to have our spouses feel that way at the end of their lives?

I originally thought of finding God as a dry intellectual pursuit, a mere question to be answered. One of the many profound surprises I've encountered on this journey, however, is that Christianity is about so much more than having the right answers or attaining accurate knowledge about the concept of God; the Christian life well-lived is a life of love. And, as we see from the life of St. Frances, even during the darkest times, even when the world outside seems to be falling apart at the seams, God can still work through each of us to make our lives and the lives of those around us "one beautiful dream."

St. Frances of Rome, pray for us.

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"WHAT YOU THINK IS OUT THERE, AIN'T OUT THERE"

A couple Fridays ago my husband and I snuck out for a much-needed date night at our favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. When I walked into the restaurant, where the owner and his assistant craft every meal from scratch, I actually got shaky: I'd had such a crazy day that I didn't get a chance to eat lunch, so I hadn't eaten in almost twelve hours. I am a pasta-holic anyway, and in my extreme low blood sugar state I whispered to my husband that if anyone came between me and the three-cheese meat lasagna there was going to be violence. I was only sort of kidding.

It was like something out of a horror movie, then, when I remembered that I'd committed to giving up all wheat products for Lent. I could practically hear dramatic music like the theme from Psycho playing as I stumbled back in horror, realizing that not only was pasta off the list, but meat was out as well since it was a Friday. As I perused the menu in a dizzy state of ravenous shock -- fettuccini alfredo, five-cheese baked ziti, beef ravioli with butter parmesan sauce -- the low-blood-sugar-having side of my personality called into question the entire concept of giving something up for Lent. I turned to prayer (it's a good thing God knows what's in our hearts, because my prayer was something like, "AAAAAAAH! NOOOOOOO!") and was quickly reminded that what I was going through was indescribably minuscule compared to what Christ suffered on the cross because of my sins. I realized the absurdity of even saying "craving pasta" in the same sentence with "Christ's sufferings on the cross," and might have even managed to feel glad that my discomfort had been a catalyst to turn my thoughts to God.

And then the waiter set a fresh-baked loaf of bread in front of me, and any bit of spiritual maturity I may have managed to muster was gone as soon as the warm aroma wafted my direction. There was that frantic, hypoglycemic devil on my shoulder again, whispering that giving up wheat is insane, that it's downright unreasonable not to eat a little bread, that I should just do some other form of penance later. Just as I was about to take a little bite, somewhere in my mind I heard my mother-in-law's voice say:

"WHAT YOU THINK IS OUT THERE, AIN'T OUT THERE!"

This is one of my mother-in-law's favorite sayings. I first heard it when she told me of a conversation she'd had with a lady who was planning to divorce her husband because the "spark" was gone and she wanted to live the high life in the dating world. Once my mother-in-law ascertained that the husband in question was hard-working, kind, and a good father, she grabbed the woman by the arm and told her of the struggles she's faced in her life, and ended her story with, "Listen! What you think is out there, AIN'T OUT THERE!" (When I asked her if this person ended up getting a divorce she said she didn't know because this was a lady behind her in line at Wal-Mart.)

My mother-in-law, whom we call "Yaya," is a tough Southern Baptist gal who is really more of a force of nature than a regular person. She's also the Albert Einstein of common sense. She had a very rough childhood, growing up in poverty in rural Texas, and ended up becoming a single mother after an unwanted divorce when her son (my husband) was still a toddler. Her only education beyond high school is a Ph.D. from the School of Hard Knocks, and it is only through tough-as-nails determination and her strong faith in God that she clawed her way out of poverty and built a better life for herself and her son. She has a passion for helping people improve their lives by sharing the life lessons she's learned, and though her methods for communicating her wisdom are often unorthodox and sometimes unappreciated, I have found that there is a lot of truth in what she says.

In particular, I keep coming back to her oft-repeated line, "WHAT YOU THINK IS OUT THERE, AIN'T OUT THERE!" (Sorry for the all caps, but it's the only proper way to quote her.) She used this line in response to her neighbor who started to gamble away his family's savings, to her friend who wanted to stop going to church because she wanted more free time, to the relative who worked eighty hours a week to try to get a glamorous promotion, and to countless bank tellers, grocery store checkers, and people in line behind her at various places throughout the greater Houston area.

What she is essentially trying to convey is this:

You will find, my friend, that the only possible way to find deep fulfillment and satisfaction in life is to make love your number one priority: center your entire life around loving others, loving He who is Love itself, and your soul will rejoice in the glory of finally finding its true purpose. Anything else is a distraction. Whether it's a hot job or a good day at the casino or a decadent meal or a nice car or a huge house, it will bring you only fragile, fleeting joy. Chasing after the comforts and pleasures of this world will lead only to frustration and emptiness. It is only by picking up your cross and seeking to follow the One who originally blazed the trail of a life of self-emptying love that the thirst from deep in your soul will finally be quenched.

It comes out as:

Listen! WHAT YOU THINK IS OUT THERE, AIN'T OUT THERE! [This statement usually accompanied by finger pointing and/or arm grabbing.]

Though her parlance is rather more rough around the edges, I find it to be refreshingly concise and easy to remember -- particularly during Lent.

That night at the restaurant Yaya's salty wisdom saved me from stuffing bread into my mouth and just telling myself that I'd do some other penance later. That night -- as well as when a friend brought over homemade cinnamon buns, when I was desperately hungry at the grocery store and watched the kids share a cookie, when I was at a church event and some of the ladies brought freshly baked kolaches -- I thought of her words, and asked myself, "What do I think is 'out there' in this food? What do I think eating this is going to do for me?" The answer, of course, was that I only wanted the pleasing sensation, which would quickly fade to nothing and leave me wanting more.

Doing something simple like giving up a certain food for Lent has made it so much more real to me that what I think is out there...ain't out there. After all the woe-is-me theatrics over the bread or the pasta or the cookie, abstaining from eating them had zero impact on my life by any metric that really matters. It's made it so clear that while there's nothing wrong in appreciating those delicious foods and enjoying the pleasure they can bring, I don't need them to be happy or fulfilled or satisfied. I don't need them at all.

This Lent, the big theme for me is detachment. I didn't exactly intend for that to be my big though topic this year, but I find that the more I immerse myself in traditional Catholic Lenten practices, the less I find myself susceptible to the siren song of "the world." The simple lesson I learn each time I'm tempted to reach for a cookie or have a bite of pasta comes to mind when I'm tempted to feel like I need a new flat-screen TV like my friend has, or those little extras at the grocery store, or that stylish new outfit. All of those things are nice, and there wouldn't be anything wrong with having them. But, like with the pasta, none of it can offer me joy of any kind of permanence.

Though giving up foods made of wheat is a small sacrifice, it has served to make me comfortably uncomfortable here in the world. On an intellectual level, I've known for a while now that this world is not our home; and now, by the simple act of letting go of some of the little material things I find most pleasurable, I feel it. I understand it on a level much deeper than just something you read about in books. And realizing just how little the material world alone can offer has stirred up a yearning for home, our true home, and the One who resides there.

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A few administrative notes

A few quick things:

• I updated my email policy to note that I will reply to all emails, at least with a quick note to let you know I received it. Because of the issue with emails from me always ending up in people's spam filters, I want to make sure people know I'm not ignoring their notes!
  
  
• My "ask me anything" post was not an example of great timing on my part: because any responses may lend themselves to discussion, I'm going to wait to answer any more until after Easter since I have comments closed for Lent.
  
  
• The 2008 Catholic Blog Awards are now open, so go nominate your favorite Catholic blogs! (You have to create an account, but it only takes a second.) I would, of course, not be opposed to anyone nominating Et Tu, but I encourage everyone to just take the time to nominate whatever Catholic bloggers they truly enjoy -- it's a good way for others to find great new reads. (When I was first exploring Christianity, I found a lot of helpful sites through the Catholic Blog Awards.) The nominating period will end on Friday, February 29.
  

Cat vomit, temper tantrums, and dying to self

What does it mean to "die to self"? I used to ask that question a lot when I was first exploring Christianity. I had no idea what that odd phrase was supposed to mean. Frankly, it sounded kind of morbid and depressing. So I set aside the question and decided to revisit it once I had more pressing questions answered.

These days, as I come to feel like I finally have a grasp on the basics of Christian teaching and try to grow in my newfound faith, this whole "die to self" concept keeps coming up again. And I think I finally understand what it means.

It really, really clicked for me earlier this week. I had a "perfect storm" moment where it was as if every frustrating thing that could possibly occur in a day all happened within about a 30 second time period. I'd only had four hours of sleep the night before. I'd been working hard to accomplish just one little thing that morning -- cleaning off our bathroom counter -- and while I was doing so the 18-month old cleared off my nightstand and threw my books everywhere (losing my bookmarks in the process); the three-year-old launched into a major temper tantrum and broke something in the process; his tantrum woke up the peacefully sleeping baby and she started fussing; and when I walked over to go get the baby I saw an outdoor cat who hangs around our house (who is not supposed to be inside) sitting next to my bed. As I paused for a moment, the counter only half cleaned, trying to figure out which fire to put out first...the cat threw up on the floor in front of me. Then the phone rang. I saw on caller ID that it was my husband. He was going to ask how my day was going.

In that moment, I understood what it meant to die to self.

To "die" to myself would be to not let love be smothered by my selfish, sinful tendencies that had been stirred up by the challenge of this situation; to make the painful decision to let go of my heated feelings of frustration and anger and let God work through me in all my actions; to let go of the way I felt like handling the situation to instead act in a purposeful but calm and loving manner, never losing sight of the needs of the other people in this situation. It was clear that I had two choices:


1. What I knew to be the right thing to do:

• First of all, pray. Ask God to be with me in this moment.
• Then go get the baby, temporarily sequester the 18-month-old in the playpen so that she'd stop destroying my nightstand and wouldn't get into the cat's mess, and firmly but lovingly explain to my three-year-old what he did wrong as I put him in time-out.
• "Offer up" the yuckiness of cleaning up cat throw-up. Consciously choose not to dwell on the inconvenience of it.
• Answer the phone when my husband calls with gratitude for having the kind of loving spouse who calls regularly to see how I'm doing. Tell him what he may be able to do to help me get through this challenging day in a constructive way, without "dumping" on him.
• Most of all, just think of it as attending the "University of the Moment" and remember that all I need to do is turn to God in complete trust, and that what is meant to get done will get done -- nothing more, nothing less.
  

2. What I felt like doing:

• First of all, spend a few solid moments dwelling on how awful the situation is. Point fingers, trying to figure out who let the cat in.
• Yell in the general direction of the three-year-old and 18-month old as I grudgingly pick up the baby. Instead of loving guidance, just keep raising my voice until they stop misbehaving.
  
• Let out a bunch of loud sighs as I clean up the cat vomit. Dwell on it to the point that I start to feel sick myself, and then feel sorry for myself because I feel sick. Get exasperated when the two toddlers get too close and try to touch it, as if there's no way I could have seen that coming.
• When my husband calls, try to see just how much frustration I can pack into the one word "Hello?!" when I answer the phone, and when he asks how my day is going, respond with something utterly unhelpful but satisfyingly self-indulgent like, "My day is terrible! TERRIBLE!" Then proceed to rattle off a long list of every annoying thing that has happened in recent memory, culminating with a grand proclamation about the tragedy of my inability to complete a simple task like cleaning the bathroom counter.
• Sulk.

I went with an only slightly improved version of choice #2. But why? That's the interesting part: it wasn't because I felt like it would be mentally healthy to "let it all out" by releasing my negative emotions in other people's directions. It wasn't because I felt like choice #2 was the better option. It wasn't even that I felt like I couldn't have chosen option #1 -- even in the heat of the moment I knew that God would give me the grace to take the high road. So why go with the lesser option, then?

Because I didn't want the pain.

The option of choice #1, I realized, would have meant "dying to self" -- and I didn't want to experience pain of the mini-crucifixion that that would have involved. Like an addict craves the empty high that drugs can give, I craved the empty high that self-pity and anger can give. I knew it wasn't good for me. I knew it wasn't good for anyone in that situation. But I didn't want the pain of nailing the self-pitying and angry sides of my personality to the Cross, the pain of humbling myself to let go of my plans and trust in God's plans instead.

And the result? If you had some kind of meter that showed a real-time readout of the total amount of love in the world at any given moment, you would have seen a little dip that afternoon. In choosing to seek the path that involved the least immediate pain for me, in choosing to let sin control the situation, I slammed the door to allowing God to work through me. I took a little bit of love out of the world -- and a whole lot of love out of our household.

I don't know what I used to imagine "dying to self" would feel like, but I didn't anticipate that there would be real pain involved. (I can just picture lifelong Christians smiling knowingly at that one.) The more I live as a Christian, the more I am struck by how difficult it is. To borrow a phrase from fellow former atheist John C. Wright, I find that Christianity is a very inconvenient religion. To die to yourself as we're called to do -- to live in the moment with calm trust, to let go of your own ego and selfishness, to reject the empty high of sin -- is hard, hard work.

And yet, despite the difficulty and the pain, it's the only thing worth doing at all. Because it is only through the painful process of dying to self that we can let God -- who is Love itself -- work through us; we can have the pure, selfless, agape love of Christ will flow through our every action. Though it's much harder than I thought it would be, the payoff is much greater than I could have ever imagined. I hope that I can remember that the next time I am tempted to run away from the pain of dying to self.

Comments closed for Lent

The domestic monastery

A kind reader just sent me this article, saying that it might have some food for thought for my ongoing quest to bring peace to my daily life. It was so good I had to share it. An excerpt:

What is a monastery? A monastery is not so much a place set apart for monks and nuns as it is a place set apart (period). It is also a place to learn the value of powerlessness and a place to learn that time is not ours, but God's...Certain vocations offer the same kind of opportunity for contemplation. They too provide a desert for reflection.

For example, the mother who stays home with small children experiences a very real withdrawal from the world. Her existence is definitely monastic. Her tasks and preoccupations remove her from the centres of power and social importance. And she feels it. Moreover her sustained contact with young children (the mildest of the mild) gives her a privileged opportunity to be in harmony with the mild, that is, to attune herself to the powerlessness rather than to the powerful.

Read the whole thing.

Comments closed for Lent | Cross-posted to my links blog

A day in the life of a "mommyblogger"

Closing comments and turning off visitor stats on my blog has had a surprisingly significant impact on my daily life. Writing into a vacuum, hearing the proverbial crickets chirping after I publish each post, has crystallized a lot of things I've noticed about blogging, modern motherhood, and "mommyblogging" (a term I'm using loosely to encapsulate the phenomenon of so many moms reading and writing blogs).

I have a lot of thoughts to share on the matter, but since they lend themselves to discussion I'll save most of them until after I've re-opened comments at Easter. In the meantime, here's some food for thought: below is a description of an average day for me from before I turned off blog comments. I will note that parts in which I have social interaction with other adults in blue (those of you on feed readers may need to click through to see the color). See if anything jumps out at you:

A Day in the Life of a Mommyblogger

MORNING
I wake up early, get dressed, and go downstairs for some quiet time before the kids get up. I smile to see an email from a good friend with new pictures of her family, and reply to ask how the new baby is doing. I reply to a few more emails from friends, family and blog readers.

I then check in on my favorite blogs to see what other people I "know" (from following their blogs) are up to this week: one mom tells us that she's struggling to incorporate prayer into her busy life, another writes of feeling glad for having such a great husband, and another writes of her tendency to feel like she's not as good of a mother as everyone else is -- what a relief to hear other who feel the same way I do! I eagerly leave sympathetic comments. One of these posts makes me think of something interesting that I'd like to share, so I write up my thoughts and post them on my blog.

The kids are now awake, so I go upstairs and get them ready for the day. It takes almost two hours to dress them, feed them and then clean up the kitchen. We say morning prayers and start our day. My husband calls to say hi. I eagerly start telling him about something that's on my mind, but the baby starts crying so I have to abruptly end the call. Today is grocery store day, so I start making the store list. I'm interrupted multiple times by needing to help one of the kids with something, but I eventually get the list completed and am finally ready to go to the store.

I give the kids a five-minute warning that it's time to stop playing and get ready to go, and take the opportunity to glance at my computer. I see that I have two new comments to that post I wrote. How interesting! One person says he can really relate to what I talked about; another writes to say she disagreed with parts of it. I leave a reply to the woman who disagreed. That little burst of intellectual stimulation gives me renewed energy as I go back to get everyone ready for the store trip.

AFTERNOON
I go through the 40-minute process of changing diapers, filling sippy cups, putting on socks, shoes and jackets and getting everyone strapped into their car seats, and we head off to the store. I have been going to this store the same day of the week at the same time of day for two years, and I never run in to anyone I know. I am surrounded by strangers. I make polite chit-chat with the checker about the weather.

On cue, all three kids are fussing by the time we get back with the groceries. A friend calls but we can only talk for a moment because I can't hear her over the noise in the background. We agree to try to get together sometime and abruptly end our conversation. I scramble to feed the baby and make lunch for the toddlers since they're all overtired and hungry. A couple of difficult situations arise and I feel so frustrated I could scream. I wonder if I'm overreacting, if other moms have days like this, if my kids' behavior is normal. I am dying to tell someone about the way I feel, and maybe get some encouragement or reassurance.

Things eventually settle down and I clean up the kitchen, do afternoon prayers, read children's books, and put the toddlers in bed for their naps. The baby and I head downstairs for some much-needed relaxation time.

I go to my desk and pay a few bills while the baby bounces on my lap. I check blog comments to see that that woman who disagreed with my post has left a new comment to our discussion, and it's really interesting! Articulating my reply in defense of my position is a refreshing mental exercise. There are also two new comments that offer perspectives that I'd never considered before. I am not familiar with the name of one of these new commenters, so I click through the link to her blog. As it turns out, she's a mom of five children, and she just wrote a post about potty training. I'm so relived to find this, because I have a specific question I've been dying to ask someone who knows about this stuff! So I leave a comment on her site with my question.

Then I go to see what's going on with some of the other bloggers whose sites I regularly follow. One of my favorite bloggers writes of how she's having a tough day and wonders if other moms have days like this. I am so relieved to read her post, I could cry! I leave a long, enthusiastic comment in response, and see that twenty other women have done the same. Some of the other commenters and I begin addressing one another's points, and a lively conversation gets started. I click through the links to some of their sites and spend some time reading their musings about life -- I can relate to so much of it. Meanwhile, the mom of five whom I asked about potty training has replied, and her answer is just what I needed to hear!

After spending a bit more time reading through my list of favorite blogs, I feel like I have a pulse on what my "community" is buzzing about today. I feel connected to the world.

EVENING
After reading the interesting comments to my post and interacting with other likeminded people through their blogs, I feel reinvigorated to tackle the rest of the day. I get the kids up from nap and, once again, go through the 40-minute process of getting them ready to go somewhere in the car (actually, an unexpected poopy diaper makes it 45 minutes). We head out to my mother's house to drop off some paperwork. To get there we drive two miles, all through neighborhood streets, and I see only one other human being. It's as if there's been a bomb scare. The one person out is a mom pushing a stroller alone. She must live near me, but I've never seen her before. I feel like stopping the car and rolling down the window to say, "Hey, I have a baby too! You should come over for tea sometime!" But that would be weird. So I offer a little wave instead. She doesn't wave back.

When we get back to the house I take the kids to check the mail at the central mailbox station on our street. Now that it's into early evening, a few people on my street are actually home. The lady who lives three doors down whom I've never met is there getting her mail. We exchange polite hello's. She never makes eye contact and quickly turns to go back inside her house.

Back at home we do a brief evening prayer and the kids play as I start dinner. I am so relieved to see my husband when he walks through the door! We chat a bit, but it's hard to have a conversation with all the chaos of tired and hungry children. He plays with the kids while I finish cooking. We sit down for a nice family dinner. I finally get to talk to my husband, although we have to monitor what we say since little ears are listening.

After dinner the circus of bath and bedtime begins, and we rush around to clean the kitchen, give all three kids baths, put on their jammies, read books, and get everyone in bed. It takes about an hour and a half. At the end of that time we finally have a little while for adult conversation. We barely get into our conversation before we both agree that we're so tired we should just go to bed. I prep bottles and sippy cups and coffee for the next day, and get ready to do it all again!

Sorry for the long story, but I share that level of detail to illustrate a point: notice what percentage of social interaction I have in a day comes from the internet. I have plenty of friends, but to get all the kids ready to leave the house (while working around the all-important nap schedule) makes going anywhere in the car only slightly less difficult than a moon landing. Hardly anyone in my neighborhood is home during the day, and the transient nature of suburbia means that the people I do see are strangers. I am almost completely isolated.

I share this not to complain, but because I find it interesting. Closing comments for Lent has brought into relief the non-trivial role that writing and reading blogs plays in my life. I would dare to say that it goes beyond a form of mindless entertainment and into the area of a real psychological need.

...But I will save the details of those thoughts until after Lent, when I can open comments again and hear what you guys have to say. Stay tuned for Part II.


UPDATE: Click here for Part II

Comments closed for Lent

A quick thought on fasting

I recently started reading The Sacred Art of Fasting by Fr. Thomas Ryan. I felt like it might be a good book to read for Lent so that I could learn more about this concept, and find out if it is indeed as spiritually beneficial as it seems to be to let everyone within ear-shot know just how much you have been inconvenienced by your sacrifices. (As it turns out, I don't think that's supposed to be part of the deal.)

Anyway, at the very beginning of the book Fr. Ryan made a comment that got me thinking: he mentioned in passing that he once participated in a Day of Fast for World Hunger, and that at the end of the day the participants met for a prayer vigil in which they gave the money they would have spent on food to a charity that feeds the poor.

When I read that, I realized that I think of my consumption of food as akin to taking buckets of water out of the ocean: my decision to take a little more or less has no noticeable impact on the total amount available to others. It occurred to me that in most other places and times it would have been an obvious aspect of fasting that by eating less yourself, there would be more food available for everyone else. (Not that that's the only point of fasting, but it certainly would have been a clear outcome.)

I really like the idea of giving others what I am not eating in some form or another. To reinstate that lost connection of one person's fast helping others, I think I will either continue to buy the foods I'm skipping and donate them to food pantries, or calculate the money I would have spent and slip it in the St. Vincent de Paul envelope at church.

I don't have much more to say on the topic since I'm only on page six of the book, but I thought I would throw that out in case others find it interesting since I know a lot of other people are fasting right now.

Comments closed for Lent

God's 12th Man

I spent my first two years of college at Texas A&M University. As an atheist I never really fit in in the heavily Christian environment, but there was an infectious enthusiasm among the student body that was hard not to admire. The school is renowned for its many traditions, and it was oddly refreshing to see the zeal with which the students upheld them. I only realized after I left to go to another school that there was a real sense of hope and self-sacrifice on that campus that is rare to find among young people these days.

One of my favorite traditions was that of the "12th Man": back in 1922 the Aggie football team was the underdog in a game against the top-ranked team in the nation. They were slowly but surely pulling ahead, but had so many players injured that it looked like they might not have enough men to finish the game. The coach had seen that E. King Gill, a reserve football player who was now on the basketball team, was in attendance, and the coach asked him if he would be willing to go in the game if needed to keep the required eleven men on the field. Gill gladly said yes, and remained standing throughout the game as a gesture to the coach of his readiness to serve. Still today, all A&M students remain standing throughout the entirety of every game as a gesture that, like Gill, each of them is ready to be a 12th man, prepared to go out onto the field and slog it out for their team at the coach's word.

I've been reminded of this tradition over and over again as I think about my newfound faith, and how I hope to incorporate it into my life.

Now that the newness of being a Christian has begun to wear off, I find that I have to try harder to center my life around God. An initial shockwave of excitement at realizing that God actually exists carried me along for a while, making any kind of spiritual growth automatically fun and exciting. Now that the "new convert" energy has lessened, I find myself walking an increasingly fine line between being comfortable with my newfound religion and taking it for granted.

One of the things I've caught myself doing lately is setting limits on how high I should set my spiritual goals. It always goes something like this: I'll hear some inspiring story about the great level of abandonment to God that a saint achieved -- e.g. that St. Therese of Lisieux was humble to the point of getting on her knees to ask for forgiveness when accused of breaking a vase she did not actually break, or that St. Juan Diego was so dedicated to the Eucharist that he would walk on bare feet for miles to get to the church multiple times per week, or how St. Francis of Assisi did not require a single material possession for his extraordinary joy -- and I'll feel great awe and admiration...and then quickly tell myself that that's not something I should attempt to achieve.

My excuse used to be that it would be prideful to even attempt it, but then I learned that trying to become a saintly person is not a matter of pride since the only way to do it is to "die" to yourself, to move your ego out of the way and let God do all the work. Yet even after that realization I still couldn't quite seem to get on fire about the idea of trying to reach the level of holiness of the great Christians, to aim to be among the men and women throughout history, known and unknown, who truly put God first in every single part of their lives. Though I didn't realize it until recently, in the back of my mind was a vague feeling that it wasn't necessary.

Though I never articulated it, the thought process went something like this: God changed the world through people like St. Therese, St. Juan Diego and St. Francis. Obviously, he's not going to change the world through me, so there's no need for me to aspire to quite that level of dedication to living the Gospel. What I'm doing right now has really improved my little corner of the world by bringing me and my family closer to God, and God knows my heart so therefore he's aware that I'm a basically good person (at least I try to be), and that's what matters. For me, I would think, there's really no need to even try to do all that radical abandonment stuff the Christians you read about in history books have done.

Lately, as soon as I start slipping into this mentality, that idea of the 12th Man comes to mind.

The Aggies ended up winning that game back in 1922, yet E. King Gill never actually played. When asked about his role in the game, he once replied, "I wish I could say that I went in and ran for the winning touchdown, but I did not. I simply stood by in case my team needed me." When it became clear that he wouldn't be called onto the field, that there would be no use for him as a big player in the game, he could have taken a seat -- as so many Aggies since then have undoubtedly been tempted to do during games in the sweltering Texas heat -- yet he didn't, and they still don't. What motivates the Aggies to remain standing through the games is not a realistic possibility of being called onto the playing field; it's not about feeling like it's necessary in order to be a good fan, since simply showing up and wearing team colors would be sufficient; and it's definitely not a certainty that they could even contribute much to the game if they were called. It is an act of love: they love their school, love their football team, and they stand because each one of them really would be willing to go out onto the field and give it their all on the off chance that the coach asked them to (anyone who knows many Aggies knows that that's not an exaggeration!)

Like all bold acts of hope and optimism and love, the enthusiasm is contagious. The standing fans impact the game, even though they're never called out onto the field. To be in the stands and see every single person around you on their feet -- even though you're in the terrible freshman seats at the top of the stadium, even though it's late in the third quarter and the temperature is dizzyingly close to 100 degrees -- will inspire even the most grouchy cynic (ahem) to rise to her feet as well.


I realize that if I were to be spiritually mature enough to grasp even a fraction of God's perfect love, I wouldn't need any kind of rationalization for wanting to reach a saint-like level of abandonment to his will. But until then, when I fall into that apathetic mindset of aiming for something less than great holiness, I like the thought of just trying to be God's "12th Man."

Even when in my short-sightedness I don't understand why I should seriously aim for the humility of St. Therese, the dedication of St. Juan Diego, or the detachment from worldly comforts of St. Francis; even when I feel like I couldn't get there anyway; even when I feel certain that God has no plans to "put me in the game," to work through me to do good on a large scale as he did with those people...what an act of love it would be to get ready anyway, to put forth the extra effort and discomfort to get to my feet and remain standing as God's 12th Man.

Comments closed for Lent

Tools from the Creator

As I was out running errands today, I was wondering how it is that there is a new stain on the carpet every single day without me ever witnessing anything getting spilled. But since that's irrelevant to the topic of this blog, I'll tell you the other thing I was thinking about: how I would explain my current faith to myself back when I was an atheist. Faith in the unseen was such a baffling, foreign concept to me back then. If I could go back in time, how could I ever convince 25-year-old atheist Jen that 31-year-old Christian Jen had not totally lost her mind?

Obviously, it wouldn't be difficult to make a logical case for belief in some sort of designed universe or god-like force. Though Old Me might not have agreed, I wouldn't have thought that New Me was totally insane. What would have puzzled me, I realized, is how I could believe so much of this stuff. To have a dry intellectual acceptance of a Creator is one thing; to believe in every single teaching (including all the "crazy stuff") of one particular church is quite another. As I drove around suburbia this morning I tried to think of a way to explain it, and the best I could do is this very rough analogy:


Imagine that you inherited a very large, complicated, old machine, and that you were in charge of using and maintaining it. Nobody knew who built it or where it came from. To keep it running smoothly, you had some tools that you'd created based on observing the machine and making your best guess about what it seemed to need. Then one day someone tells you that they have a different set of tools for you to try. They say they happen to know the guy who originally built the machine, and he created these tools to go with it. You're highly skeptical that anyone could possibly know who created this machine; besides, the tools look rather unwieldy and difficult to use, so you dismiss the possibility of trying them. You feel annoyed that this person even offered you his set of tools, figuring that he must have had some ulterior motive for trying to get you to stop using your own perfectly good tool set.

Yet, as time goes on, you find that your tools aren't getting the job done as well as you'd like. The machine is still up and running, but repairs you'd previously made are now causing other parts to break. New, more complicated problems are arising and you find that your tool box has nothing in it that is able to make anything other than the most rudimentary repairs. Keeping it in basic order is increasingly difficult, and getting it running smoothly again starts to seem impossible. You try some other tools that were also created by people who had observed the machine, and none of them work much better than yours.

Then you remember that that one guy said he knew the machine's creator. You recall his tools, remember what they looked like, and realize that one or two of them might actually be just what you need. So you call the guy back and ask to take another look. You test a couple of the ones that look like they might be helpful, and find that they fit like a glove. The machine starts working better. You try another. It gets better. On a lark you even try one that doesn't seem like it would do anything at all. And the machine gets even better. Then you notice some crazy-looking tool that appears almost dangerous, that seems like it might even break the machine if you tried it. But, since everything else works so well, you start to suspect that this tool set really might come from the creator of the machine. So you brace yourself for the worst and try the odd tool. Not only does it not break it, but the machine starts running more smoothly than you ever thought it could. It starts to do things you didn't even know it could do!

Based on the results you've seen, you can easily believe that this entire set came from the machine's original designer. It was said to have come from the creator, and every single tool you've tried indeed bespeaks a deeply intimate knowledge of the machine. You realize that it would be difficult for a mere operator of the machine to come up with any one of these tools, and impossible for them to design the whole set. The tools are just too perfect -- yet perfect in very surprising, non-obvious ways. So even though a few of the tools are too complicated and intricate for you to understand how and why they work, and though there are still some tools that you haven't even tried yet, you have no problem accepting the set as a whole. The more familiarity you gain with it, the more you get used to working with this new set of tools, the more it just becomes plainly obvious that all of it -- even the parts that you can't fully explain -- comes from the creator.


And there you have it: one of the worst analogies of coming to faith I've ever heard...but the best one I could think of today. I'm not sure what Old Jen's reaction would have been (other than to motion for the waiter to bring another gin and tonic), but hopefully I would have at least gotten the concept that when Christians accept certain elements of their religion on faith, it's not because they're naive or want to tell themselves nice stories, but because they've found that the more faith and trust they put into their religion, the more they see bold, tangible, previously inconceivable changes in their lives.


Editor's Note: This is not a post that would have normally made the cut. However, one nice thing about having comments closed is that I can throw out thoughts that I don't think are that great and pretend that nobody is even reading the site anymore anyway. And nobody can comment to tell me that my analogies are lame. :)

Comments closed for Lent

And to dust you shall return

We had a great time on Fat Tuesday. To do some feasting before the start of our first Lent as Catholics, my husband and I went to the house of some good friends. When I first arrived I felt the wind pick up and looked to see some threatening clouds on the horizon, so I hurried to get inside before the rain started. We watched the Super Tuesday election results and talked some smack about politics with our friends as we enjoyed good food, good company and good wine in the warm glow of their home. In the midst of our merrymaking the window screens would occasionally rattle as the wind whipped around outside.

I woke up the next day, Ash Wednesday, feeling a whole lot less merry from having stayed up too late. As I got ready to go to my first ever Ash Wednesday prayer service, I heard the horrible news that tornadoes had ripped through five southern states the night before and that the death toll was at 44 and climbing. That same front that had done nothing more than blow leaves around our city had in other states leveled homes, killed entire families, and utterly devastated large regions of the country. As I drove to the church I thought of how surreal, how horribly impossible it all seemed.

When I got to the church I was initially distracted by making sure I didn't do anything stupid since I didn't know what to expect from this service. But I was quickly reminded of the tragedy that had played out on Tuesday night as the distribution of ashes began. We prayed, we listened to Scripture readings, and then we all got in line. And when it came my turn the deacon smeared ashes on my forehead in the shape of a cross, looked at me, and said:

"You are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Those words from Genesis 3:19 are probably the one thing on which all humans from every place and time can agree. The modern parlance might be, "You are chemical reactions, and one day those reactions will cease," or maybe "Your body is matter, made of atoms like all the other lifeless stuff in the universe, and one day it will return to being lifeless matter like everything else," but regardless of how it is phrased it is nevertheless something we all know to be true. It is probably simultaneously the most important, most agreed upon and most ignored fact of life.

The truth of this statement seemed all the more real this day. It occurred to me that as I sat in the pew with black ashes on my face, listening to beautiful yet somber sound of Attende Domine coming from the chant schola, watching men, women, and children walk through the line to receive ashes, that at this very moment thousands of people were walking through the ashes of what was once their homes. Probably some of the bodies in the funeral homes in Tennessee, Arkansas, Kentucky and Alabama at that moment were yesterday people who were chatting about whether to give up chocolate or coffee for Lent. As the long line moved forward, I heard "You are dust, and to dust you shall return...You are dust, and to dust you shall return...You are dust, and to dust you shall return," over and over again. I thought of how casually I'd glanced at the darkening sky the night before, how I'd taken it for granted that my own death is far off as I heard the wind pick up outside.

You are dust.

I never intended to take Lent lightly, but I had fallen into the mode of thinking of it in abstract terms like "a time for spiritual growth" or "an opportunity to grow closer to God." But in the ashes ritual I was starkly reminded that that the storm clouds are on the horizon for us all; that to build your life around earthly comfort and pleasure is to build a house of cards.

And to dust you shall return.

The announcement of this most inconvenient, inevitable fact of life begs the question: what are we going to do with this information? And that, I now realize, is what Lent is all about.

Comments closed for Lent

Comments closed for Lent

I will continue blogging for Lent, but I am not going to look at the site's visitor stats and I will close comments*. I am so appreciative of all the wonderful, kind and thought-provoking comments I get on this blog...but my tendency toward pride makes it very easy for me to cross the line between appreciating comments and requiring them to feel at peace about what I write. Similarly, I've noticed that seeing how many readers and links I have through Sitemeter can be a slippery slope for me: I used to check it only once a month or so, and that somehow turned into once a week, which turned into a couple times a week, which turned into once a day. I could use a fast in that department. (I did this last year and wrote about some of the results