I remember vividly the day I sat with my sister in our bedroom and mulled over our plans for the future. We talked about our options and the possibilities of someday getting married and raising families. I was preparing to graduate high school and it seemed as though what my heart desired was certainly in my more immediate future.

We discussed the “who” the “what” the “where” and then… the when.

My outlook on life did not have a fairytale approach, though when I look back now, I see that a good dose of reality was yet to come. In an effort to balance the dream-come-true with reality, I remember coming up with three “worst case scenarios” for my future. One of them, which I refer to in the below mentioned radio interview, was this:

“In the WORST case scenario, I end up single at 30 years.” I remember informing my sister and following it up with, “But I don’t think that can happen. I won’t LET that happen.”

Oh, Mary, Mary. You had so much to learn.

That worst case scenario actually became my reality. And do you know what? That reality has been a blessing to me in many ways, in spite of the heartache to accompany it.

The radio show in which I tell this story and others published yesterday on my 33rd birthday. A coincidence? Perhaps. But my heart tells me not. Instead, I believe it was a clear message to me and every young man and woman living the single vocation with an ache for marriage to know that while our plan seems like the best plan, it’s really just “okay” and pales in comparison to the great worth of the wait. 

If you care to hear more about this perspective, come join me and listen to last month’s episode of The Pearl of Great Price in which I talk about discernment on all kinds of levels and how love works crazy things in our waiting. If not anything else, I hope this reaffirms your faith God can transform even our worst plans into His best plans.

Love, Mary

“With love, I not only do I go forward, I fly!” – St. Therese of Lisieux

At one point in time, the fear of losing touch with all things “kid” seemed like a legitimate concern. My siblings were growing up and my own family still a dream and prayer. But thankfully, there is no shortage of children in my life with many of my friends and siblings now deeply involved in heaven’s great mission of raising families.

On winter days, I relive the adventure of building blanket forts and taking breaks to drink dangerous amounts of hot cocoa (containing more marshmallows than cocoa, of course). On summer days, I learn everything there is to know about sharks and giant squid, how to ride scooters, and all about the proper care of a centipede. And on any given day, I might be so lucky as to catch a baby smile in exchange for a performance of The Cuppycake Song. (Is that not the sweetest thing you have ever heard?)

This is not the song that inspired the title of this post. But it was one such link to childhood that recently drew me into a new and powerful view of own my life; something I am still learning how to see and appreciate in every single day.  It all started as Faith and I began a three-day road-trip pilgrimage to the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in LaCrosse, Wisconsin.

*If you follow us on Facebook, you know a little more about the behind-the-scenes to this adventure – as well as the why, how, and when. You can also watch our videos on YouTube to dive into the heart of our journey!*

Within minutes of commencing our road-trip north, Faith and I managed to find pizza, a smoothie, and deep conversation. Was that a surprise? Hardly! In no time, we were on our way to Wisconsin, digging deep into the movements of our lives, families, and even the hopes and plans for our trip. (All while definitely not starving.)

“Can you believe we are doing this?” I asked. We had been talking about this trip for months, making AirBnb reservations, researching ice cream shops in the area, and putting new breaks on my car (in no particular order of priority).

The joy of cruising along the highway was so much more than the trip itself for me at that moment: it was the action of doing it. So much of my life is spent thinking about tomorrow, practically planning out a course for my life in big and small ways. In the case of this pilgrimage, I found myself grateful and proud of Faith and me for not just talking about going to this holy place together, but seizing the opportunity to go.

Faith agreed with me as I tried to explain all of this to her while she navigated the GPS. But instead of simply agreeing and moving on, she then called me on to something higher in a way I did not see coming.

“It’s just like Daniel Tiger…” she began. “You know Daniel Tiger, right?” I wracked my brain for the memory of a tiger and how it could connect to my reflection. As Faith began to describe the latest children’s show, it all suddenly came back to me: Mr. Rodgers, King Friday, Gina and the calm and wise world in which Daniel Tiger and I were both raised.  “Oh, THAT Daniel Tiger…” I mused.

I expected Faith to dive into a story about the character of Daniel Tiger. To my surprise, she began to sing a song from the storyline itself:

“Enjoy the wow that’s happening now…”

I was stunned. Gone was the satisfaction of looking back at the planning and preparing it took to make this trip happen. Gone was the plan and purpose we had given to the journey ahead of us. This simple little ditty hit me like the proverbial two-by-four. The happiness I felt in that moment had little to do with everything behind and before me and had everything to do with what was right in front of me – the present moment.

Just like that (and because this tune was incredibly difficult to shake!) the lyrics to a children’s song defined every movement and theme of our three day road-trip pilgrimage together.

Instead of rushing to our AirBnB that night, we took the time to veer off the main road and watch the sunset over the Mississippi River. We attended a later Mass than originally planned the next day so we could be rested and refreshed, unknowingly providing ourselves extra time to explore the Shrine’s grottos on the path to the chapel. A bag of lettuce and a frozen pizza became our dinner of choice one night in place of a nice restaurant, affording us a chance to curl up on the couch to listen to our favorite podcasts and the sound of rain on the roof.

In the midst of these and so many other unexpected joys, one of us would inevitably start to sing, “Enjoy the wow that’s happening now…” My happiness was no longer in the satisfaction of achieving the moment, it was in embracing the moment – the “wow” happening now. 

It called me out of the lies looking back at my life – mistakes, wounds, regrets. It freed me from the weariness of planning out how life “should” go. It pulled me back from becoming worried or discouraged at my future. It satisfied everything I needed right when I needed it. God truly is in the present moment and only asks me to embrace it as a gift sent by Him – simply to make me happy.

Yes.

Our good Lord wants to make you and me happy, and He demonstrates this to us countless times in the minute of every day. I don’t know about you, but I am often too busy looking backward or forward to notice the happiness “here.”

St. Gianna Beretta Molla – the saint at the heart of our adventure – knew this all too well. As Faith and I began packing up for our journey home, I came across a quote I had written down just a few weeks before. I smiled when read it again and aloud,

“The secret of happiness is to live moment by moment and to thank God for all that He, in His goodness, sends to us day after day.”

Perhaps this was the whole point of our entire trip – to find the secret of happiness by living and loving every moment well.

The trip itself is long over, but the wisdom of the journey remains. Now, when I find myself all-too-often worrying about the future or going back over the past, I try to draw my heart toward the present moment. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.

My “wow” is happening now.

Do you ever intentionally revisit a happy place, like an old friend? The place your husband proposed, the house you grew up in, or the street on which you mastered the art of riding a two-wheel bike? If not in person, perhaps you, like me, revisit old places in your memory and there, meet familiar faces and moments when you see your story being written ever-so-intentionally, with love.

A few years ago, I made a visit to the church where I became a Catholic – the church where I was baptized and received my First Communion over twenty years ago. There, I looked back into my story and marveled at the transformation that occurred within those sacred walls. It’s one that had to be written ever-so-intentionally, with love. Because I started with nothing. I was the young girl who, in that very church, pointed to the crucifix, and asked her dad, “What is that?” I was the girl who stood on her toes in order to reach the baptismal font. The 10-year-old girl who learned for the first time that she was actually made in the image and likeness of God and was created simply to know, love, and serve Him. Being in that place brought me back to a place of transformation in the very core of my soul. It was humbling and rewarding, to say the least.

These past few weeks brought us “back” to the story of our redemption too, much like the story of my conversion. We made our annual walk through Holy Week and journeyed from the cross to the crown. Easter came with all it’s glory! And the story continues.

Of all the places the story of our redemption has taken me these past few days, oddly enough, I find myself lingering longer at the empty tomb. I know I should be rushing around Jerusalem at this point with the apostles and disciples, exclaiming “Alleluia” in a flurry of excitement, disbelief, and holy fear. I should be seeing Him with the holy women, walking with Him on the road to Emmaus, and thrusting my hand into His open side.

Instead, I return to the tomb. I find this quiet, empty place to be one full of promise and peace. 

I imagine myself not alone in the desire to go back. In fact, I KNOW I’m not alone. Mary Magdalene returned to the tomb a second time in search of the missing Savior. The angel’s words were not enough. She boldly asked where He was taken and received the gift of recognition in return. “Mary” Jesus called her by name. And she believed. (JN 20:15-16)

I imagine Mary Magdalene returning to that place, over and over again, as if to relive that moment of recognition. Wouldn’t you? Even in her eagerness to share this news with the apostles, I see her turn back on the road to Jerusalem as if to take another look at the place of transformation – even for just an instant. Unlike one woman’s audacious “looking back” that turned to salted stone, this look turns back a much different stone again in our memory. 

As I stand there in silence, I see so much more than the empty space before me. I see a story, written ever-so-intentionally, with love.

I see once impossible places in my own heart – dark, cold, and broken places. Memories of my “worst case scenarios” becoming realities in the form of wounds, loss, trauma, and hurt. I hear echos of myself once saying, “I will never be able to recover,” and “This can never be made right again.”

And then – There is light. The once impossibly dark spaces are now filled with light by the Greatest Gift of Selfless Love. 

And oh, what an enormous amount of light fills in that tomb – no crack, crevice, or hole is left unchanged by His presence! The hard memories of the past become realities of healing and hope like I never thought possible. In the tomb, I see those “worst case scenarios” become the catalyst for my life’s greatest redemptions. 

They come in all shapes and sizes – forgiveness, strength, experiences, loved ones and friends, and most of all – a healing, growing, thriving heart.

And I know He’s writing a similar story, ever-so-intentionally (with love!) for you, too.

He calls you back to life. He forgives your greatest offenses. He heals your deepest wounds. His mercy pours forth from the empty tomb and brings light into your darkest places.

What do you see when you look at the tomb, my friend? 

Is it dark with loss of grace from sin? Filled with pain, regret, or addiction? Maybe your tomb is one of grief and loss, empty with longing for another. Is it loneliness you bear?

Or perhaps your tomb as a broken heart! I heart feels like it is beyond repair. A heart that is called improved and torn to pieces. A heart that feels unable to be mended.

I linger at the empty tomb because that is where the transformation occurred. I stand there, like I stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon, marveling at the beauty that can come from layers of dirt and sand. I stand there, as if in disbelief that the place I am looking for or out in front of me is the same place  impossible place I knew once before. 

Come and stand with me dear friend, at the end of your heart come and ask him to cast His light inside! Wait for it – and you will hear him call your name. Then, you will know and believe that he is writing your story ever-so-intentionally, with love.

“Behold, I make all things new.” (REV 21:5)

With Love, Mary

I met Mike on a trip to the Southwest last summer. He introduced himself to me and my friend from the driver seat of a giant, dust-covered Jeep. We were the only two people signed up for his last tour that day. Instead of taking us on the quickest route, Mike gave us a special tour through the Sedona, Arizona red rock cliffs and mountains, customizing the experience to our physical abilities and interests. Simply put: we went off-roading!

Along with tales of the early settlers, John Wayne’s production studio, and the desert ecosystem, Mike shared with us his love for the red rock country. With 30 years of a busy city lifestyle behind them, Mike and his wife were new to the area, living out their retirement in the middle of the Sedona desert. Together they hike trails on the weekend and watch the stars each night from their back porch. In his spare time, Mike gives Jeep tours so he can share his new-found love with visitors from around the world.

I listened to his story as I looked at the jaw-dropping scenery before me and wondered at the culmination of so much success and joy. Mike and his wife weren’t just living a good life – they were living their best life.

“Wow. These people are truly are living their best life!” I said to myself as I looked out over the red rock valley from the top of a ridge. “I can’t wait to live my best life! What can I do to get there?”

Almost as soon as I asked myself this question, I stopped. The view before me seemed to say my name in a gentle rebuke. 

“Mary! Forget about where you’re going for a minute and live this moment! Your best life isn’t out there, it’s right here.”

The sight before me grounded my heart while my head started wandering. Here I was, standing in the middle of the Sedona desert, learning about the agave plant, javalinas, and prickly pear cactus. Here I was, exploring a new world of red rock a the disposal of a flaming pink jeep with a sunset peeking through the clouds. Here I was, living, breathing, and thriving.

I was surrounded by the best landscape, accompanied by the best of friends, hiking in the best of health, and launching into some of my life’s best adventures. And instead of sharing in the awe and wonder of this moment, I was wandering off into a jungle of later’s. I was getting too caught up in the future to enjoy the present moment. And do you know what? I do that almost every. single. day. 

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The “best life” proposition is one that surrounds me daily in a thousand ways. It is usually associated with a sales pitch of some sort: a billboard for an allergy medication, an ad for a retirement home, or a video on the latest workout routine. Social media feeds are saturated with people serving their best meals, working their best jobs, decorating the best homes, and going to the best schools.

As a marketing professional, I see the false advertising in the “best life,” and I often fall into its trap, considering “this moment” as insufficient. After all – I’m not always standing in front of a red rock masterpiece. Sometimes, I’m standing before efforts wasted, resources untapped, challenges unaccepted – all while eating cereal for dinner. That’s right. Sometimes there’s very little “best life” going on in my world. 

The reality is, that is what my life looks like sometimes. And do you know what? I wouldn’t be here without the less-than-sufficient moments. Even my best failures, best pain, and best disappointments contribute to making me the person I am today – in this moment.  Through the mercy and love of God, they prompt me toward the greatest joys, unexpected achievements, and the holiest of people. 

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On our way home from the off-roading adventure that day, Mike stopped the Jeep suddenly and walked over to a prickly pear cactus on the side of the road. He stooped down, picked something up with the edge of his pocket knife and walked to the back of the truck. He looked very excited.

“Hold out your hand,” he said to me with a somewhat reverent tone. I obeyed and found myself holding what seemed to be a small piece of thickly strung spider web. Mike told me to take the palm of my hand with the substance and hit it on my forehead. I hesitated. In fact, I protested (there is a limit to my trust in a stranger). So we compromised and I clapped my hands together, instead.

When I opened my palms, I found a red blood-like substance pooling on my skin. “That,” Mike said with awe, “is one of the most expensive, rarest forms of red dye in the world. That is cochineal.” I picked up a few important details from Mike’s subsequent explanation of the substance. All I heard was: expensive, rare, and made from bugs.

A wave of emotions flooded over me: gratitude that I hadn’t smashed raw bugs on my forehead, awe at the history of this highly sought-after treasure, and disgust at the fact that I had bug juice dripping all over my hands. 

That, my friends, is what living our best lives is all about. Sometimes, it shows itself in wonder and awe, treasure and joy. Other times, it is hidden in the midst of pain, sin, and suffering. But it is there – the cochineal – even in the bug-smashed-in-your-hands kind of messy.

The next time you are caught up in the messy, the mundane, or the jungle of “later’s” take a moment to stop and remember the big picture – that red rock desert view. Remember that you are surrounded by a landscape of gifts and goodness and that the deeply rooted desire for God and mission to sanctity is the heart of what makes your life the best.

Don’t be like me and take the risk of missing out on something beautiful because you’re too busy wondering about where you’re going, instead. Take time to thank God for the now and every moment that brought you to it.

And know that all of it – from the dishes you wash to the smile you exchange with another, are a part of what makes you the irreplaceable love in the heart of God. 

It’s all a part of what makes the life you live right now – the best life.

Love, Mary

“God would never inspire me with desires which cannot be realized; so in spite of my littleness, I can hope to be a saint.” – St. Therese of Lisieux

“For when I am weak, then I am strong.” 2 Corinthians, 12:10

This “holy irony” may not be as shocking as “the poor inheriting the Kingdom of Heaven” or Our Lord’s invitation to share in a cross which He said, “is easy and its burden light.” But the concept of weakness bearing strength is more than a theory or irony and continues to stand the test of time.

Some of the strongest people I know are those who wrap their arms around some of life’s weakest, most vulnerable moments. I’d like to tell you their stories, for they are the stories of ordinary women living out extraordinary strength by the nature of their call.

A woman’s strength looks like my childhood neighbor named Cathy who watched my siblings and me play outside each afternoon from her big kitchen window. To me, Cathy was the “crazy sock lady” who wore a colorful scarf around her bald head. She let us swim in her pool, feed her dogs, and take care of her plants when she went on vacation. Cathy always returned the stray foam arrows that somehow escaped into her yard from my brother’s little bow. She laughed and waved to us as if she had a special place in this world – until one day, she simply left it in a silent, peaceful sleep. Her heart won every day that her body lost to cancer.

A woman’s strength looks like a mother I know, who once lifted the blanket from her newborn daughter’s carseat one last time before handing her over to her adoptive parents. The letter accompanying the baby explained it all – her love, faith, and the importance of the adoptive parents in her newborn life. It would be 31 years until this mother would see her daughter’s beautiful face again in a triumphant reunion.

A woman’s strength looks like a young bride from Indiana I learned about last year who called off her wedding a week before she was supposed to walk down the aisle. In the midst of her loss and pain she had the strength to turn her own marriage feast into a marriage feast for the hungry. This woman invited 150 homeless from the community to her wedding reception – attending the event herself and making sure they were served as her wedding guests.

These women live, without a doubt, unshakable strength, rising above fear, loss, comparison, and grief in challenging times. And they do so silently, unaware that they are exercising their heart and growing it’s capacity to endure. I am convinced that their superhuman strength comes from the weight of their love.

A woman can and should claim for herself the chief place in love.* This means that she governs, rules, and reigns in all things relating to the heart, which is in and of itself the very core of our human existence. A woman’s “weakness” comes from her ability to be to be vulnerable, which sometimes means getting hurt.  And what we see in the examples above are women who, without knowing it, have mastered the art of bearing and healing of wounds. It is because they love that they are wounded. And because they love – that they rise beyond the wound to a summit of strength.

Perhaps, in a work of perfect irony, they capture the essence of what it means to be a woman, who, when she is her weakest, is her strongest!

The women mentioned above are not unique to their sex. Far from it! They follow a long line of feminine force before them – from Esther and Judith to St. Joan of Arc and Mother Teresa. And Mary! It is the Blessed Mother’s supernatural mission that glorifies the strength of the “weaker sex,” standing firm at the side of her Son, at the foot of the cross, and in the glory of the resurrection. It is this figure of womanhood that glorifies weakness, prompting us to see the irony and consider her the “strongest sex.” (When I am weak, I am strong…)

Our culture is in a coma of denial and lies where the dignity of true womanhood is concerned. We’ve been given 50 shades of grey to define a lifeless face of femininity. The woman’s strengths are being redefined as weakness while her weaknesses are being hailed as strengths. We have to dig hard to find that heart, where suffering and love thrive and grow into something mysteriously “more.”

As women, what if we were to dig back into the holy irony of superhuman strength in weakness? What if we resolve to commit our lives to rule radically from the heart? What if we embrace the cross when it comes instead of trying to fix, fashion, or forge a new one? We could, no doubt find an awakening from this coma. We could enjoy new life pumping strength, joy, and resiliency throughout nations. 

You are that woman. You carry a burden that no one else knows to the same extent that you do. The very burden that seems to weigh you down at times is actually your secret strength! In the bearing of the weight, you are exercising the biggest muscles in your heart and capacity to love. In the mystery of your weakness, you are building strength that will minister to you, your family, and your community. Allow yourself the chance to take risk in loving, in good times and in the not-so-good times.

Dear sisters, will you join me in a mission of embracing our “weakness” in order to build strength? To own our unique and beautiful hearts that, no matter what comes, cannot be destroyed.

Let’s be okay with not being okay sometimes – mourn when we are called to mourn – cry when we are called to cry.  Every day, we can practice in the “weight-room” of virtue, building the muscles of generosity, the endurance of chastity, and the glow of perseverance. We can witness a bold surrender to God and trust in His providence, stretching out our whole hearts to the people we love and serve.  In this, we can and will truly reclaim our chief place as love.

Yours, Mary

*Casti Cannubi, Pope Piux XI

603.78 miles. That’s the final count for miles walked in 2018 on my fitness app. (That’s almost like walking across the entire state of Texas!) This year was a year of walking – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. As a result, my feet, heart, and soul went on all kinds of adventures! Some steps were those of a daily routine and training while others were steps into places of wonder and joy. Still others led me to challenging and sad places, where love was tested and courage wavered. 

Instead of counting the places and scenes from this past year (because yes, that includes the Camino! The Grand Canyon! Zion National Park!) my heart simply rests in the greatest gift of them all:

I can walk!

That’s a lot more than I could have said in years gone by, crippled in one way or another by physical, emotional, or spiritual wounds.

If you told me in 2013 that I would walk the Camino five years later, I would have thought it a joke (or had visions of being pulled by oxen). Because at this time five years ago, my right foot and leg were extended in a big black “boot” cast, healing from a fracture caused by too much walking. In September of that year, I had the great privilege of walking my first big “hike” which was actually nothing like a hike at all. It was a pilgrimage in upstate New York. I walked about 65 miles in 2.5 days from Lake George to Auriesville in the company of dozens of fellow Catholics – men, women, and children. It was an incredible experience. We walked the same route on which many of the North American Jesuit martyrs were led toward their martyrdom, hundreds of years ago.

While the experience was fruitful for my soul, the walk itself was too much for my feet to handle. At some point in the journey, I developed a fracture. Thinking my pain was no different than anyone else’s (and not wanting to take the “wimp wagon”) I finished the route, walking on the fracture. I couldn’t have done it without the help of a few gracious souls who encouraged me along the way. My cousin in particular was a lifesaver to me. He would walk behind me and “lift” my backpack off my shoulders whenever we came to a steep hill. (Thanks, cousin!)

When I came home from the pilgrimage and couldn’t walk at all, the doctor immediately put my leg in a cast. The injury left me homebound – dependent on others for rides and unable to climb a simple flight of stairs in less than 20 minutes. My hopes and dreams of making any journey by foot, let alone my longstanding dream of one day walking the Camino, seemed to vanish in a fog of pain, healing, and host of complications that ensued in years to follow.

This place of “sedentary confinement” was a physical one by nature. However, I can relate this time in my life to others, where suffering, loss, or even sin made me feel like I was broken, stuck, and officially beyond repair. And I bet you know what I mean, don’t you?

Those times in my life seemed like they would last forever. And to be honest, I cannot quite recount the moment I actually started limping out of those debilitating places in my life. But the when doesn’t really matter, because:

I am walking! Moving from right to left, up and down, limping along (usually out of breath), and every once and awhile soaring above the clouds.

And this year alone, my once broken foot took me across 603.78 miles by just placing one foot in front of the other. With the proper care, time for healing, and carefully calculated training, my foot did not waver. And just like that, my heart too, has recovered.

I may not be able to place when it happened, but I can tell you it didn’t happen overnight. It took a lot of patience, a whole lot of waiting, and the willingness to let some of those dreams go. The time spent tending to these wounds proved to be one of the greatest healing agents of them all. And the same foot that broke in the Adirondack Mountains on pilgrimage made it through the hills of Galacia Spain to the foot of the Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela – five years later. That, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.

Perhaps your eyes will open upon this new year 2019 in a state of stillness. Maybe you are unable to move from trauma of loss, suffering, or sin. Your feet might be broken and the cast might still be on from your past falls. If this is the case, dear reader, do not lose hope. Let the new year greet you as it will… in this year, you WILL learn how to walk again. Be they baby steps or running leaps, you will begin to move forward in the exact time needed to make a full (and even more complete!) recovery.

Allow yourself the receptivity to time and healing. And who knows? Maybe 2019 will be the year you walk again!

Mark my words: you WILL go places and distances you never thought possible. Like 603.78 miles – or more!

~~~~~~~~~~~

And oh, how aware I am that I am not here alone. Like my cousin, a few dear souls have, without being asked or rewarded, encouraged me to take steps, joined me on the journey, and have taken delight with me in the wonders along the way. I wouldn’t be here today were it not for these dear friends. As 2018 comes to a close and a new year dawns even brighter on the horizon, I thank God for the gift of walking and the movement that drives me always forward. Come, join me!

Verso l’alto!

Happy New Year! ~ Mary

It was nearly 7:30 in the morning – the time I would normally be pulling into my parking space at work, the sun barely showing it’s bright face before the doors to my workplace shut behind me. Instead of anticipating a cup of coffee and a flood of emails in my inbox, this morning found me walking into my apartment, wide awake (without coffee!), holding fresh kolaches in my hands and complete stillness in my heart. It was a good morning.

The longest night of the year was over. The Radiant Dawn of yesterday’s O Antiphons had risen after the longest period of darkness in the entire year. The King of Nations was on his way.

I’m not sure why, but as the sun set yesterday, I felt closer to the manger than I had this entire Advent season. One more night separated my world from the arrival of longer, brighter days.

I was up before the sun this morning. And I was the only car on the road as I made my way to the Rorate Caeli mass at my parish. There was mystery in the air when I knelt in the church, lit only by candles, and watched the shadow of the priest on the altar begin the Holy Sacrifice.  The sun would rise this morning and find us ready – ready to greet the King.

As I held a candle in my own hands and watched the flame illuminate the world before me, I was immediately brought back to three specific places in my life where light penetrated darkness.

The first place my heart returned to was the Anza-Borrego desert of Southern California, one year ago this Advent. I was on an Advent Retreat, hiking and camping in the desert. My group arrived at the campsite after dusk. The chaplain greeted each of us with a 2-minute orientation. He pointed to my headlamp, “Glad to see you have a lamp – you’re going to need it! The ladies’ tents are located over there,” he said, waving to the black darkness beyond my view, “After you find one and settle in, come join us for adoration over there,” and he motioned to the darkness in another direction.

After securing my belongings in an empty tent, I found the field of adoration and knelt in wonder. There, in the middle of nothing – was Everything. The emptiness of the desert surroundings was filled by the light of one lamp and the Giant White Host above it, suspended in a monstrance. As I knelt with others around me, the moon above suddenly parted from the clouds. It was a full moon, and round rays of light began bouncing from the moon, creating rings of white throughout the sky. I couldn’t tell if the moon was reflecting the round white host, of if the host was reflecting the light of the moon. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. And I marveled how even in the darkness, He gives us light. How there never really IS darkness because He IS the light.

The next place my heart returned to was the side of my bed, nearly a year before the desert trip. Instead of awe, in this memory, I found anguish. It was perhaps the darkest time in my life. I remember kneeling down at the side of my bed that night, crying out to God in the midst of a loss so great, it felt as though my heart was being ripped out from my body. Somehow as I beheld my bruised and wounded heart, I became aware of a “flicker” from within. A tiny, single flame of hope that was not just present – but alive. I wondered how it got there and how it could keep going when I could do nothing to tend to it. I didn’t know where it was, or how to get there, but I knew it was there.

And finally, my heart returned to a more recent memory –  the words of a new friend who looked outside of her own world one day to lift me up in my own. A stranger-yet-friend who held my shoulders in her hands in the middle of the lunchroom at work and looked directly into my eyes saying, “God is faithful. He promised Abraham that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars. And Abraham believed, even without seeing.”

It may seem like a lot of places to go during one Mass, but it really only took a few minutes to go there in my heart. One experience built on another in perfect succession. The candle in my hand flickered it’s message of hope to me throughout each part of the Mass and I knew it was reflecting a message of hope for me that I would like to share with you: I saw in these memories how…

God comes to us in our nothingness – in our desert. And sometimes, we can see Him the clearest when there is nothing else around us. We have a chance to be that “thing” that reflects His light in the world around us, just as the moon reflects the light of the sun – even in darkness.

There is no such thing as absolute darkness where Christ is concerned. What seems to be a flicker of hope in our heart gives us constant life. That the flame, when recognized and tended to, can only become a bigger, brighter fire of light in our soul.

Sometimes we are called to simply believe that the stars are there, even in the middle of the day. With faith like Abraham, we can point to the promise with faith that moves even mountains.

By the time Mass finished, the light of the sun started to peek through the stained glass windows. And I saw the foreshadowing of another light in my memory of years gone by – the Star of Bethlehem. I firmly believe that the Star is always there with us. Like one of Abraham’s stars, it sustains us, even when we can’t see it.

Just as the Radiant Dawn comes again – and will keep coming, morning after morning.

God bless, Mary

You know how the saying goes, don’t you? “When God closes a door, He opens a window.” You heard it said as a child in the face of disappointment. You said it to a friend when they questioned why a good thing had to end. Perhaps you even whispered it to yourself in an effort to drum up a sense of hope in the face of abandonment.

My life has been a continual movement in opening and closing of doors. When I look back however, I tend to see more closed doors than opened windows. I remember the slamming sound more than the soft and quiet opening of something new.

I experienced this most recently late last Thursday night while waiting for my flight with a cup of Baskin-Robbins ice cream in my hands.  (Yes, it was a spontaneously declared Ice Cream for Dinner Night. After all, I was on vacation!) As I waited for the flight, I realized just how much I needed this trip. The past couple of months had been physically and emotionally exhausting. My heart was quivering with it’s own needs, so long told to wait in the course of life’s events. My creativity had diminished over time and I knew that traveling would bring it back.

“I can feel the sense of adventure slowly finding me,” I texted my sister as began to unburden my heart in the wait to board.

And just like that – I found myself jumping from my seat and waiting in one long line after another to recover my ticket from a cancelled flight and to try – in-vain – to book another and salvage my trip. 

The door to this trip was closed. I heard it slam extra loudly with the Uber car door as the driver brought me safely home in the middle of the night. “For some reason, I wasn’t meant to take this trip,” I mused as my head hit the pillow, too tired for tears, “But what could that reason be? I needed this trip!”

We all know the sound of that door slamming in our face. And the echo of the minutes, months, and often years that seem to follow. I have a sneaky suspicion that this is true for most of us. We look back and remember the moments of panic that ensued when something big in our lives ended. . . a job, a relationship, an activity, and even the chance to live out our dreams.

This wasn’t the first time I had a door slam in my face. The first one looked like the front door on my New Jersey home as my parents drove us over a thousand miles into the Midwest for a new opportunity. It looked like the office door that shut behind me after quitting a job where I was surrounded by some of the people I loved the most and thought I might never see again. The door shut more softly on the religious life, as I learned that even with my newly opened heart and appreciation for the call as a spouse of Christ, it was not meant for me.

In those moments, I looked for the proverbial window and sometimes, it was nowhere to be seen. Dear sisters – what if I told you I think we are mixing up our windows and doors?

I believe the “doors” I described from my life above were not actually doors. A door is something we walk through, in which we find a new world, and to which we advance when we move toward something new. A door is an open opportunity and invitation to walk into a place of growth. Whereas, a window is simply a glance into another world beyond where we are currently standing and thriving. It is is a limited opening meant for observing. We cannot walk through a window. 

Life really is a series of doors and windows, opening and closing at the grace and inspiration of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps the closed doors mentioned above in my life had been doors at one time. But when they closed, they were simply windows, closing me off from places that I no longer belonged; places in which I wasn’t going to thrive. I know this because of what followed, every single time…

In the story of my cancelled trip, I found God’s hand in reviving my spirit. For three days following the late night Uber ride, I slept in, went to mass, went grocery shopping, exercised, cleared a tree in my brother’s backyard, spent extra time in Adoration, read a book, watched the leaves fall down in the nearby park, and baked bread. It doesn’t sound like anything spectacular, but with every movement of tending to my life and home, my soul began to rest.

And then, it began to fly. Just like that – my creativity came back – a slow and soft opening into something new. A door opened and I found the rest I needed – perhaps, in the way I needed it the most.

Every time I heard the sound of something closing, no matter how loud and frightening it seemed, something far far greater awaited me in the aftermath. Life in the Midwest was the best thing that could have happened to the 10 year old New Jersey girl. The job I said goodbye to was followed by another with more relationships waiting to be made and kept, just as the other friendships had been kept and grown. And the things I learned about love – true, sacrificial spousal love – as a result of my discernment to the religious life, set my heart on a continuing path toward my vocation.

The next time we hear our window closing, with a giant “no” in our face, dear friends, let’s get ready to thrust open a door nearby. A door into something beautiful and new – full of life and opportunity awaiting us on the other side. Let’s put aside the echo of the slamming sound and listen intently instead, for the softly spoken invitation to turn a handle, thrust open a door, and walk into an unknown “yes” with trust. 

The door might not look like much at first glance. It might be plain, small, or barred. It might be quaint, classic, or majestic. But the details do not matter. What matters is that we hold the key and decide just how we will open them…

Will we peek through them in fear of what lies on the other side? Keep our ear to it for awhile in the hope of hearing what might be on the other side? Or, will we throw them open with confidence in our Savior’s promise, “Behold, I make all things new”?

Yours, Mary

Last week, a woman in a Catholic bookstore literally handed me a saint.

She came from behind the counter holding a golden reliquary containing a first class relic of little Therese Martin, now St. Thérèse of Lisieux. “Go ahead and take it. Venerate it. Bring into to the chapel with you and pray with it. She’s been working so many miracles lately…” and with that, the woman disappeared behind the counter and busied herself with her work. 

Taking the woman’s suggestion to heart, I left my items on the counter and proceeded to the chapel for a heart-to-heart with Jesus and His Little Flower. There, I poured my troubled heart and all it’s cares into the listening ear of an old friend.

You see, St. Thérèse and I have a long history. In fact, as I knelt in that chapel, memories came flooding back to a day over 22 years ago, when my friendship with her began in that very place. I was a ten-year-old newly minted Catholic, fresh out of the baptismal font. My knowledge of the saints and faith was nonexistent at that time, so trips to the Catholic bookstore were welcome opportunities to learn about the new gift of my faith.

It was like opening a box at Christmas that never fully emptied. Each time I visited the store, I bought a new addition to saint book collection, including the one on St. Thérèse. And that is how she and I met for the first time.

I fell in love with St. Thérèse, her family, and her little way. She was relatable, beautiful, and simple. She was wise and full of life and somehow managed to become the patroness of priests and missionaries without ever leaving her convent’s doorstep. The altar to St. Therese at the nearby Carmelite Monastery was where I learned the “pick a rose” prayer and I prayed it – over and over again.

There was just one problem: no matter how many times or how devoutly I prayed that prayer, I never received a rose. Never! For years I would pray that novena prayer for various intentions, starting and stopping on different feast days, but to no avail. “I don’t need a shower of roses… even just one would do!”

As a younger Catholic, I felt a bit snubbed.  And as an adult, I learned that it’s not about the roses. The way the saints speak to us means little if we’re too busy looking for signs to hear their voice. I learned that St. Thérèse is with me, with or without the roses. The Little Flower, then, became a friend in different seasons of my life.

And here she was, in the old familiar bookstore, renewing that friendship once again. And there I was, kneeling in the same place I had once began this long and  complicated friendship, casting myself into her care, now blissfully unaware of roses or any signs that she heard me. I knew she had.

I walked out of the chapel feeling like I had won the lottery that day, my heart bursting with the universality of my faith, “Isn’t being Catholic uh-mazing?”

The relic was restored to its rightful owner and the woman behind the counter and I shared our St. Thérèse stories. She shared her own long-standing friendship with the saint and how she had been given bouquets of roses in response to her prayers over the years. I smiled inside and out as she told me the story… “Oh yes. Some people receive roses,” I mused.

I had forgotten.

“St. Thérèse is very generous with you,” I said, perceiving that I too, was receiving grace through her. We parted friends that day and I returned to the register to complete my purchase.

As I turned to leave that evening, my bag filled with goodies and my heart filled with gratitude, I saw before me an elderly nun, walking my way. On her face was a smile that outshined the sun and in her hands, stretched forth before me – was a single rose. A perfect rose. A rose.

“I think you need this rose today” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Remember, He is always with you, even in the darkness.”

Oh, dear little Thérèse – my sister and my friend! Here was the rose, in the most unexpected and unplanned moment in our friendship! You waited for me to forget about it before giving it to me. And you came to me in a season of discouragement to refresh my soul.

If you are going through a hard time and want to know your prayer is heard, then share this rose with me. It is yours, too, for it represents every prayer you think He does not answer, when in fact, He treasures every word. Take this rose to your heart and know that your prayers are heard, even when the silence seems deafening. Know that your faithfulness will be rewarded and He will speak to you – with or without a rose.

Love, Mary

“I have to be quite honest. I am absolutely terrified.”

The words came off my lips in a slow, deliberate tone. Even as I said it, I could hear them drift away into the vast opening of the canyon below my feet. While the words of my terror did not linger, the meaning took root in the knowing look of my canyoneering guide that day.

Joe, our rappelling guide, was standing in front of me on the ledge of the 100 foot cliff, holding out the carabiner for me to clip my harness into as a safety precaution. Only then could start setting up my line for the greatest thrill of my life. I wasn’t catching the excitement. But good old Joe caught my drift and looked at me straight in the eye:

“Well that’s good. That means you have a healthy understanding of the task before you. But I’ve watched you now successfully rappel down 180 feet of the canyon walls. I’ve watched you and I have confidence in you. You are stronger than you think.”

This conversation took place outside of Zion National Park just last month on a three foot ledge on the side of a canyon wall. It was a canyoneering outing in beautiful southern Utah. While it was my first time rappelling, it was not the first time I was calling out my fears. In fact, I had said almost the exact same thing to my mother, 25 years ago.

Back then, I wasn’t afraid of rappelling – I was afraid of reading.

That’s right – reading. (Go ahead, laugh.) I remember sitting on my parents bed, holding the Boxcar Children in my hands, waiting for my mom to finish giving my baby brother a bath so we could continue the next chapter. I wanted to know what happened next in the story and I was getting anxious. Mom’s voice came from the bathroom, “Go ahead and read it without me, Mary! Don’t wait for me.” And I froze. . . Read a grown-up book, by myself? Dive into another world on my own? What if I can’t do it right? Does this mean I’m growing up?

“I’m afraid.” I stood before my mother as she leaned over the tub, calling out the fear and exposing my frailty to the one I loved most. My mother looked at me and said, “What are you afraid of?  I’ve watched you read so many times. I know you can do it.”

I nervously climbed back on the bed and began to read. One word after another turned into a sentence, then a paragraph, and a finally, a chapter. Before long I had finished the Boxcar Children, the Nancy Drew Series, and every mystery or historical fiction series I could get my hands on.

Fast forward 25 years. Here I was on the side of a cliff, faced with a familiar fear and a very similar message of encouragement. There was no turning back. This wasn’t a rock climbing trip. (And airlifting me out of the canyon seemed a bit expensive, though I seriously thought about it for 2.5 seconds!) I knew the only way out was forward. But unlike the Camino or every other hiking excursion I have been on, the way out wasn’t an actual road I could walk – it was a state of mind I had to overcome.

I asked myself out loud the same question my mother asked me about reading, “What are you afraid of, Mary?” Was I afraid of the ropes? No. Was I afraid of the harness? No. Was it the speed of the wind about me in the open air? No.

There was only one thing left to fear – me.

I was afraid of letting go of that rope, even while clinging to it. It was as simple and as silly as that.

I distrusted the strength of my own hands, which had proven themselves over and over again. Why? Was it really about the fear of letting go… or was it about clinging too hard to what I thought I controlled in the fear of getting hurt? (Bingo!)

This moment on top of the cliff was a metaphor moment for the rest of my life. It explained so much about the various fears that have impacted my life – from the fear of reading to the fear trying big things. How many times did fear get in the way with moving forward? How many times have I halted, wavered, and even hesitated to open a door, simply because I held the key? After all, there comes a time when we must trust in our preparation, discernment, and God’s grace to catch us if and when we fall.

Well, it wasn’t about to get in my way this time! My feet were already making their way to the edge of the drop-off. With my ropes tied and checked by Joe for safety, I began backing to the open space. “I can do this,” I said to him, “but only if I can do it without looking down,” I said without apology.

Joe smiled. “You can walk down this cliff however you need to, Mary.” 

The fear was in my own hands. And so was the ability to overcome it. Friends, there were three things that went through my mind as I walked down that cliff, step-by-step, inch-by-inch:

– The fear was exposed. (Take that, fear!) It didn’t have the same weight as it did before, hidden and obscure from the vision of my heart. Now that it was out there, so was I. This was a battle in letting go of “turning inward” and mistrusting the good and capable things that I can do. “You are stronger than you think,” I muttered under my breath, “because it’s not about you in the first place!”

– The hard times. I thought about actual times of crisis in my life. Somehow, without using any of my own strength, I was able to survive things I never thought I could withstand. If I could get through those things, this should be a breeze!

– This was part of living my best life. (Definitely a post all of it’s own, but I’ll summarize it here.) Walking down this cliff was a part of an adventure not only bigger than fear, but as a way of living beyond it; of giving it less credit than it’s worth. Our life is not just a collection of misadventures! Those are just the footnotes to the bigger, grander adventures – the choices we make to live an intentional, purposeful, and joy-filled life.

The result? A white-knuckle trip down the side of a canyon cliff, knees shaking and teeth clenched! And those hands! They were sturdy, steady, and as strong as ever. Of course, we know it wasn’t about them, anyway!

Like the adventures of reading, I learned that sometimes in order to discover new places (both in literature and in real life) I must be willing to take a step with courage toward an unknown, not allowing self-doubt to steal my journey moving forward. Unlike reading, however, I will not be looking intentionally for further rappelling adventures. One was probably enough. 🙂

Love, Mary