Everything was peaceful on the commercial Boeing 757 flight I took from Dallas last summer – until it wasn’t. Somewhere between the verse and refrain of a song I was listening to, I felt my body lift from my chair as the plan itself dropped in the air. My jaw clenched and my heart flew to my throat in fear. 

Glancing around me in panic, I noticed that the entire plane was in shock. Across the aisle, a young college student gripped her seat with white knuckles. The man next to me ripped the earbuds from his ears to listen frantically to the message from the caption over the loudspeaker. “I’m afraid!” children were screaming outloud as the plane took another dip downward. I felt the movement itself become faster than the gravity that held me to the seat.

The captain’s voice was muffled and sounded far away. He didn’t waste words: he ordered the flight attendants back to their seats for an “unexpected situation” with the weather. A glance out the nearest window revealed a wall of dark, grey clouds. I tried to fool myself with the idea of routine turbulence and instead, entered into what felt like the scene of a thriller movie. 

Our plane glided into the storm and as it did, I felt our steady climb into the sky descend in giant jolts downward. Our altitude, posted on the screen in front of me, was steadily dropping. The engines became quiet and the clouds seemed to swallow us into an unknown darkness. Every time the plane dropped, my heart sank a bit further into my throat.

The children’s screams escalated my own fear. “I’m afraid!” Their words were repeated, both aloud and in my heart. Every time the children screamed those chilling words, my own fear became more real within my heart. I wondered, perhaps the man, the college student, the flight attendants – perhaps all of us – wanted and needed to scream those same words: “I’m afraid!”

I knew those words inside of me were not meant to be quieted: I was meant to say them. But how? And to whom? I searched my heart and found Him, my God, recalling the words I had read just a few days before, shared by St. Margaret Mary, - words that he spoke both to her and now to me: “Let me do it.”

In a time of fear, panic, and terror, these words gave me peace. “He’s got me, no matter what happens,” I thought. There’s nothing I can do, nothing the man next to me could do, and so much that only the pilot could do. It was all in His hands. And he assured me, “Let me do it.”

Suddenly, my heart protested, “I’m afraid” it said with the children around me. Instead of quieting down those words and giving myself reasons to believe I need not be afraid, I leaned into the fear and said them over and over again to God in my heart. And so, this became a litany of prayer within my heart during those awful minutes that felt like hours.

Me: “I’m afraid.” Him: “Let me do it.”

Me: “I’m afraid.” Him: “Let me do it.” So it went, on and on…

The emotions inside me rose and fell, just like the plane itself. I had panic, then comfort; fear, then confidence.

It took about 10 minutes for the plane to right itself, and resume it’s steady course home. The relief I felt when the movement stopped was cautious. There was silence around me and all passengers seemed to be asking the same question, “Is it over?”

It was over. The captain returned to the speaker and said we had weathered the worst part of the storm. He ordered everyone to remain in our seats for the duration of the flight. While it took some time for the adrenaline inside me to subside and give way to relief and gratitude, I thought about the voices of the children, “I’m afraid!” while staring out at the dark clouds that paved our way home.

I admired how small children were able to articulate their panic with words and how they helped me to see the need I had to do the same and honor my fear. Children raised in a healthy environment have the privilege of being able to react and vocally respond to stimulus of all sorts, giving voice to fears as well as doubts, pain, and joys. I notice that as we grow, the healthy management of those emotions often becomes a misinterpreted and unhealthy suppression. How often do we convince ourselves that “there’s nothing to be afraid of” when in fact, there really is!?!? This experiencing highlighted for me this truth: trusting in God doesn’t mean we aren’t supposed to fear! The fear itself matters. You matter.

I believe that God Himself tells us so. He has historically acknowledged our fear – over and over again, much like the litany I prayed on that plane – and invites us to place it on Him, trusting that He will indeed “do it.”

“Do not be afraid…” He said it on the Sea of Galilee, on the mountain of the Transfiguration, and in countless other scriptural counts. “Fear not…” He said before ascending into Heaven and promising to return. He says it every day when he sees our response to danger or the unknown. He said it to Peter, He says it to me, and He says it to you.

Let Him acknowledge your suffering, my sister. Let Him comfort your fear. Give Him the space to say “I’ve got this” whether it’s once or one million times. He’s eager to do it and even more eager to come closer to you in those moments of fear. He will do it. We must only let Him.

Jesus said to St. Margaret Mary: “Let me do it.” “His Sacred Heart,” she wrote, “will do everything if I let him.”

A few weekends ago, my husband and I and our three young children attended our very first ever family retreat. It was a beautiful weekend of prayer, community and reflection put on by families, for families.

The Lord blessed us with so many beautiful moments of recreation- kayaking, playing mini golf, exploring the grounds with friends, and creating artwork, just to name a few. There were also some incredibly moving spiritual moments- sitting in Adoration with my daughter and watching her bring drawing after drawing up to the altar to give to Jesus, hearing my son sing in worship as He sat before the monstrance in the group adoration night, and praying over my godson in the stillness of the chapel as a way to celebrate and commemorate his baptismal birthday. My heart is still pondering it all.

Strewn among all of this beauty and goodness were interruptions. LOTS of them. Because, that IS the essence of family life with little people running around. Sometimes bathroom breaks are needed, and then needed again, five minutes later. Sometimes squeals and wiggles cannot be contained- even at the most pivotal moments of the Mass. Sometimes emotions erupt after a night of little sleep in a new place, running too fast results in scraped knees and demands for band aids, and boundaries must be pushed, and limits tested. (also will we ever not fight over who gets to press the elevator button?)

It happened all weekend long. Prayer was interrupted. Sleep was interrupted. Adult conversations were interrupted. And meals? You guessed it. Interrupted.

In a different time and space, I would have been bound by frustration, perhaps even desolation. Praise God it was here, on retreat, surrounded by many other families experiencing the same thing and leaders and Clergy who responded with only kindness, that God saw my chaos and said in His infinitely loving way, “come anyways. stay anyways. your place is here. Come AS YOU ARE (not as you think you should be)” and because of the grace abounding around me, I was able to say, wearily but trusting, “okay.”

And then the Lord asked me to consider how interruptions, so often seen by us as merely frustrating and inconvenient, can actually be very holy opportunities to minister.

Even Jesus’ own ministry was filled with them; the sick, tormented and desperate seeking Him out, reaching out to touch His clothing, places and people not ‘on the schedule’ that popped up everywhere He went. Rather than sigh, scoff, or try to avoid, Jesus stepped into those moments with those people and gave the undeniably abundant gift of His presence. And I can do the same.

When my child decides he or she simply ‘can’t hold it’ after we’ve already buckled everyone into the car.

When my toddler’s melt down happens mid phone conversation with a friend.

When the cup (inevitably) spills, the child wakes in the middle of the night, the plans are postponed or canceled altogether because sickness, emotions, or plain old unforeseen LIFE happens, I can choose to see what’s outside of my control as a chance to choose holiness.

To choose patience, to choose humor, to choose death to self without complaint…to step into the raw, messy, murky human moment and impart grace, forgiveness, compassion, or help.

I heard it proclaimed in recent times and it’s been echoing in my mind ever since – “so that nothing goes to waste.”

That’s how it works in the Kingdom of God. No moment, no interruption, no setback ever has to be a “waste” of my time. The God is working out all things for my good is TRULY doing, just that, working out ALL things for His glory, even those things which, at first glance, seem to be a distraction from all the “doing” I’m trying to cram into this life. When offered to Him, even the most mundane or inconvenient can draw me closer to His heart. Even deviations from “the plan” or “the prayer” can be opportunities to experience His goodness, and to CHOOSE that over my own frustrations.

Be assured that nothing is outside of His reach- no worry too insignificant, or space too small- there is nothing He cannot redeem. So I challenge you friend, especially in the upcoming Advent season that will no doubt be filled with interruptions and distractions- give those little irritations, aches, and unforeseen circumstances to the God who wastes nothing, and watch what He does with even the smallest bit of your faith.

And truly- It takes eyes of faith to see, and a heart set in the posture of humility to recognize that God’s presence is what makes holiness. It is He who makes spaces sacred. It is He who makes people saints. It is He who gives suffering purpose.

and It is He who can take the interruptions, and make them holy.

One New Year’s Eve, I received a call around midnight from a group of seminarians three states away. The unexpected nature of their call immediately led me to fear an emergency. When I heard joy and laughter upon answering the phone, my fear subsided and I soon learned the real the reason for their call: they were phoning in a favor. One of the seminarians had a college-age sister who wanted to attend the SEEK Conference in St. Louis that coming weekend. Her brother and the seminarians were willing to drive her to St. Louis the next day, but they needed to find a place for her to stay.

The young lady found a home on my couch the following night. Her seminarian brother – and his seminarian brothers – returned early in the morning to bring her to the conference. When they arrived at 7:00 a.m. to pick her up, I just finished making her a hearty breakfast, using the last of the ingredients I had in my refrigerator.

As I poured coffee for the men around my kitchen table, I noticed that some were eyeing the little sister’s eggs with interest. I knew full well that I didn’t have enough groceries to make them the same meal I prepared for her. And yet, I couldn’t help myself! The words slipped off my tongue, “Would you like some breakfast?”

In no time, I was raiding my pantry and asking the Lord to work another miracle of the loaves and fishes. He answered in the form of frozen waffles which I proceeded to overcook in an overheated oven. The men drowned the waffles in butter and syrup, devouring the entire stack while sitting at my table and bringing life-filled conversation and joy to the morning. To me, the waffles were a sad excuse for serving guests in my home. But to the men around my table, the waffles on their plate gave them a place of home at my table.

It did my heart good to see them off that morning to experience time with the Lord and each other – powered by frozen, overcooked waffles. Since that day, my home has seen guests that include seminarians’ sisters and even their mothers. It’s not something I ever offered to my seminarian friends outright. Yet, they have the freedom to ask, and their families have in some ways, become like my own.

That particular experience taught me a lot about hospitality – and it’s not about the art of entertainment, decluttering, hacks for hostessing, or stocking up on food in the pantry. Instead, I learned about the importance of having a place at the table and what it means to be a guest.

In fact, I’ve learned a lot about hospitality over the years by being a guest in the homes of others. Here are a few things I’ve noticed about being a guest:

• It’s not about the food, it’s about the company!
• Washing dishes can lead to the most memorable conversations and singing parties.
• There are always more laughs and more memories around making the meal together than eating it.
• Your uncleaned bathroom makes me feel at home. It’s just like mine!
• I don’t care if the table is cluttered or sticky. I’ve often sat at tables where I could only claim a small corner so that everyone could fit around the table together. Those are the best places to belong.

The feminine heart was made with a capacity to receive. And the man’s heart was made in such a way as to desire to provide for others. Individually and united, men and women have a great power of hospitality that surpasses all forms of cultural entertainment, Instagram influencer accounts, and Martha Stewart magazines. Simply put: we were made for communion. Life lived with others is a life lived with Christ.

It’s not easy to overcome fear surrounding hospitality. Perhaps past experiences or cultural pressures have burdened our viewpoint of what it looks like to make room for another at our table. Today, I’d like to propose a few ideas and thoughts for consideration on this subject.

A Place at the Table of Your Home: Did you know? You can host others and enjoy the party! Often, I hear women speak of why they don’t host others in their home. They speak of messy houses, an unplanned menu, and a busy schedule. The secret to it all is this: it’s not about what you make or how you make it. (If that’s the case, find new guests!) Focus on the place you make for another at your table and let everything else be secondary. That very place you prepare for another is the most cherished part of the home. It says to its guest, “You are safe, you are loved, and you are wanted here. Come and rest awhile.”

A Place at the Table of Your Heart: Our home is the extension of our heart. We do not need to have to physically host others to show them they are known and loved. We can be a “home” for others and with others in our daily encounters – at work, with our children, at the grocery store, and best of all, with a community of friends and loved ones who offer life-giving relationships. Find your people and share life with your people – listening, loving, and fostering opportunities to receive and cherish others in your heart. You don’t even have to be with someone to make this kind of welcome. Your thoughts and prayers for them throughout the day is one way of listening to them with God.

A Place at the Table of Your Community: It doesn’t take much to notice a need for community in the world around us. A global pandemic continues to have an effect on social norms and fears. We’ve learned to live and do things alone. While independence has it’s value, it’s not an end-all! Chances are there is a widow, a single person, or a struggling parent who is longing for some kind eye to fall on his or her day. Practicing awareness to others and reaching out to them during our day has the potential of changing someone else’s for the better. What might seem like something so small as throwing salt on a neighbor’s icy sidewalk, smiling to a grocery store clerk, or entertaining small talk with an elderly woman in a waiting room actually cultivates a sense of belonging – both to the receiver and to you, the one who welcomes others to your table.

We were made for communion! I hope you’ll take some courage from these words and consider how you might make room for someone at your table, in your heart, or in your community this week. Know that just a you are worthy of “hosting” so are you worthy of being received and given your very own place at His table at Mass. I’ll find you there, in the Eucharist, where we share the greatest Feast of all.

Peace, Mary

It’s been amazing to see how God has kept this conversation going here in spite of our absence; it reminds us that life is best lived in community with one another. We’re excited to share more in this space as God allows in the days and months to come.

We had the joy of spending this past weekend on retreat together in a sleepy little town, where we’ve encountered God in late night conversations and lots of space to rest and belong. We’ve given this space a face lift and hope you’ll take a minute to catch up on the stories God has written in our lives.

Meet Faith

Meet Mary

We’re praying for you, wherever you’re at, keeping you in our hearts.

The article below was written for “Liturgy Notes” from the Office of Sacred Worship in the Archdiocese of St. Louis. Many thanks for the opportunity to contribute!

By: Mary Serafino  This past Christmas, a piece of Heaven came to a choir loft in the most unexpected of ways. With less than 24 hours until the morning Mass, I risked a last-minute addition to the repertoire. Thankfully, the organist was happy to oblige. The piece was Pietro Yon’s Gesu Bambino and it was an unlikely choice for a late inclusion, being slightly out of my range and enormously out of practice. That did not matter. In my heart, I simply longed to sing the words, “The angels sang. The shepherds sang. The grateful earth rejoiced. And at His blessed birth, the stars their exultation voiced.” We got creative, made a few alterations to the highest of notes, rehearsed it once, and hoped for the best. While I sang, I was only aware of one thing: it seemed to me as if the angels, shepherds, and stars were in fact, singing it with me. A woman stopped me after Mass. “That piece!” she said. “I don’t know how to explain it, but while you were singing, I could actually imagine all of the angels in the church, singing it too! It was like I was there, in the field, with the shepherds, going to adore the newborn King.”  I was amazed. She heard them too! Rather than noticing the haphazard nature of this musical accompaniment to the Mass, this woman heard creativity come to life, both in the art of the composer and in our hearts. She heard Bethlehem. In his letter to artists, Pope Saint John Paul II explains how this works: “Art has a unique capacity to take one or other facet of the message and translate it into colours, shapes and sounds which nourish the intuition of those who look or listen. It does so without emptying the message itself of its transcendent value and its aura of mystery.” Speaking about music specifically he continued,“In song, faith is experienced as vibrant joy, love, and confident expectation of the saving intervention of God.” Those in creative ministry — and any ministry, at that — will likely relate to this Christmas experience in many different ways. Ministry is more than work, it’s a personal experience with God, lived in communion with others. Yet, not every day in ministry can be like that Christmas morning. We know too well the ebb and flow of ordinary life that makes creativity seem out of reach or dull. It is easy to get caught up in repeating musical repertoire year-to-year, wedding-to-wedding, or funeral-to-funeral. It is also possible to get caught up in the work, investing time to perfecting skill and knowledge for the sake of excellence alone so that the fruits become results — numbers, attendance, and feedback — instead of nourishment to the soul. Discouragement can also arise simply from our own imperfections. The good news is, when creativity seems out of reach or lost, it is in fact, not far away. True creativity has love as its source — a kind of creativity that is always available to us, no matter the day or situation. When we love we are naturally creative. I have witnessed this around me in the strongest of loving bonds, especially in marriages and in the holiest of priesthoods. The lover is always creative in expressing his/her love for the other. The Source of this Love is God. He is the one who invites, instills, and engages in this love with us and creates personal movements of “art” in our everyday lives. St. John Paul II explains that, “He touches [the human genius] with a kind of inner illumination which brings together the sense of the good and the beautiful, and he awakens energies of mind and heart which enable it to conceive an idea and give it form in a work of art.” Our Lord Himself wastes no chance in showing us His creative love. He lived it with every step He took in the Gospels, in the words that he spoke, the places he visited, and the miracles he performed. He turned water into wine, raised the dead to life, walked on water, and multiplied loaves and fish by the thousands! He spoke through parables, addressing people as they lived and in the way they would best receive His word. He was, is, and always will be the culmination of “vibrant joy, love, and confident expectation.” It is hard not to respond to this kind of love with our own! The saints and friends of Jesus constantly demonstrate this. Mary hurried to the Pharisee’s house to anoint Jesus’s feet with oil, much to the surprise and skepticism of those around Him. Jesus called her love “great” and told her, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” Friends of the paralytic man lowered him through the roof of a home in order to bring him to Jesus. He saw their faith and said to the man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” Some of the Church’s most treasured Eucharistic hymns were penned by St. Thomas Aquinas, including Adoro Te Devote and Pange Lingua.  The next time we feel stuck or bored in art or ministry, chances are it’s time to take our cue from the saints and lay our heads on the heart of the Beloved. He is eager to intervene and already has His hand in the sights, sounds, and shapes in the world around us. When we do, we might not only hear Bethlehem, but see also Galilee, taste the Wedding Feast, smell the holy oil, and touch His precious wounds. This kind of creativity can turn any act of love into a total masterpiece.                                                                                                                                                            About the Author: Mary Serafino is the Communications Specialist at Kenrick-Glennon Seminary and a cantor at the Basilica of St. Louis the King. She enjoys a wide range of creative outlets, including photography, cooking, graphic design, and writing for her blog, Her Soul Proclaims. Mary enjoys hiking, learning new music, traveling, and learning new music. When she’s not exploring national or state parks with friends, she can be found baking in her kitchen and singing along to a favorite playlist or soundtrack.

We’ve been through a lot over the past several years and our lifestyle, culture, and habits have drastically changed. Among the numerous new considerations we’ve had to make for work, school, and health, there are also a host of new words. There is one in particular that I’ve been reflecting on these past few days: quarantine. I usually associate the word with isolation and loneliness, and rightly so. It means by very definition, “a state of isolation.” As I stop to consider how I’ve learned to cope with this and other negative effects of the pandemic, I see that I’ve learned a whole new way of life. Believe it or not, quarantine itself has strengthened and grown new and healthy “muscles” of connection that I never knew I had, leading me to a stronger, healthier understanding of a Eucharistic life.

A crippling snowstorm in the Midwest gave me pause to stop and realize I was automatically using these muscles. One morning, in the heart of the snowstorm, I walked from my home to Mass at the neighborhood church. A neighbor caught up with me in the empty streets. We took turns calling out when a car was approaching and saw each other safety to the church steps. Once inside, we unraveled our warm layers and looked about as others did the same. Monsignor was eagerly hearing confessions and preparing for Mass. The scene made me incredibly happy: the storm didn’t stop the normal activity, it actually enhanced it. “This is SO good,” my neighbor said as we entered the church. “It’s things like this that actually make us meet and spend time with one another!”

She was so right! It made me think about what “this” was. The news stations were describing “this” as a crippling and dangerous storm, one that was causing isolation, cancellations, and warnings. That’s when it hit me: covid, and all of its crippling effects, prepared me to not only cope differently in difficult times, but to actually live more fully from them. Ordinarily, I would have felt the crippling effects for the snowstorm deep inside my heart. Instead, I slipped into a routine that felt like home.

I caught up on rest, taking time to read, write, and pray within the natural rhythm of the day. I spoke to friends over the phone and did some work from home. I took night walks in the snow and shoveled my sidewalks and my neighbors’ sidewalks. Time was spent crafting, cooking, trip-planning and catching up on the latest happenings in a galaxy far far away. Friends came to dinner almost every evening. I quickly slipped into a healthy balance of housework and rest. I went sledding with friends. It was glorious!!

The simple truth is this: quarantine helped teach me that connection/communion with others is not contingent on being in the same room with them. One can live in a constant state of community and be completely alone in their heart, while another can live alone and be constantly ready for an encounter with others. The truth behind this is living a Eucharist life; a life lived in and from His presence.

The original quarantine of 2020 was pretty brutal for our world. Those were the days of ongoing isolation at home, scrubbing groceries before placing them on our pantry shelves, watching Mass via livestream, spending holidays with loved ones over video chat, and carefully selecting our social “bubbles.” Many of us got sick. Some even died. We spent days and weeks without access to the Mass, Communion, and even the chance to pray in our churches. Even now, some of us must continue some form of social distancing or isolation.

In the past two years, I had one major surgery and covid three times. Covid sent me to the hospital once and left me with ongoing health concerns. I’ve spent months being sick at home and then spent more months recovering afterward. In that time, I learned how to live more fully and freely from home alone, and how to seek and stay connected with others. I learned how to find His Presence in the Tabernacle of my heart. Those days have changed my life forever – and I couldn’t be more grateful.

I still don’t “do” quarantine very well. In fact, sometimes I get anxious just thinking about it. Complete isolation is never a good situation. I’ll be quite happy if I never have to quarantine again! And yet, as I learned with this snowstorm – I likely will. Life is out out of my control and I do not know what then future holds. But I do know that when those times come, I have an instinctive muscle that will help to see me through and can help strengthen my connection to peace at home and with others. I can dig deep into the Eucharistic Heart of Jesus and live from His presence.

This of course, is my muscle, strengthened by my personal experience. And yet I suspect that I’m not alone in this and that you have strengthened your own life through these very trying times in your own way, too. My neighbor’s reaction to the snowstorm tells me that she gets it: we’re not alone. No matter how hard or lonely the days may be, we are surrounded by invitations to embrace our life and the lives around us. This is what it means to live in communion – to live a Eucharistic life. “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.” MT 11:28

Children have a simple and direct way of making a home in a mother’s heart. I’ll never forget the day that 12-year-old Ian came into mine. He arrival was an unexpected surprise that changed my life. He was not the first to come – and I doubt he’ll be the last.

He came on a warm spring day on a coffee shop patio. I noticed that he was sitting by himself and wondered why a child of his age was alone on a Saturday afternoon. I had commandeered a table of my own with an umbrella and had planned to write out my grocery list while I sipped a matcha latte. Instead, as I returned to my table with the hot beverage, I found Ian sitting down next to my stack of papers. 

“Why, hello!” I said. 

“May I sit here?” He asked. 

“Certainly! I’d love the company. But please come and sit here in the shade.”

He grinned and sat in the chair next to mine under the shade of the umbrella. I watched as the boy consumed a seemingly endless procession of sweets and treats. While he ate, he told me all about his life – from his greatest achievements to his deepest insecurities. He was honest, innocent, and spunky. I found myself knowing his story, feeling his pain, empathizing with his desires, and wanting to be there to cheer him on throughout his entire life.

But instead, when the last bite of the sticky bun had been devoured, Ian stood up, wiped his sticky hands, looked me in the eye and announced, “Well, I’m going now. Thanks for letting me sit here with you… It is good not to be alone.”

A piece of my heart walked away with Ian on that day, as it walks away with all the others who take up a home within my heart. 

Home is a place where we are never alone; where one finds comfort, safety, and nourishment. This is motherhood! And it is built into the very identity of every woman, both spiritually and physically. St. Thomas Aquinas tells us that grace builds on nature. Blessed Virgin Mary is perhaps the perfect example of this kind of collaboration between grace and nature. 

If motherhood is being a “home” for another, it is no surprise, that the Holy Spirit came to the Apostles as they were gathered together at home in the Upper Room with Mary. It makes sense that Mary would be present for the birth of the Church. In this way, the harmony of the spiritual family in the Church existed in this way since the very beginning. Mary was a home for the Apostles. She was a safe place for them to be themselves in a hostile world.

Mary was a mother, through and through. She waited and prepared with the Apostles for the coming of the Paraclete. She knew their story. She witnessed their zeal, received their blunders, wept over their persecution, and lingered in their longing. Her presence was real and it was all that was needed. She was not there to fix or provide, to heal or to facilitate. She was there to be present with her sons and daughters, as she is for us, for all eternity. With Mary, as Ian would say, “it is really good not to be alone.”

This is really all a child wants, right? To know that their mother is with them through everything?

“I am quite gifted,” Ian told me on that memorable day. “I’m really good at Math.” Some might shake their head at such a bodacious claim. I smiled, guessing that there was more. And sure enough – there was. After sharing more about his achievements, Ian suddenly got quiet and his face grew serious, “There are things I’m not very good at – like PE. And… I have autism.” In sharing this, Ian was sharing with me a vulnerable place in his heart. In that moment, Ian was a son. And he was home. He was safe and loved in my heart and his sufferings made me love him even more. Only the childlike can be so vulnerable and free. 

For Mary and for us, being a home for our children means experiencing life with them. The child’s joy becomes our joy and their sorrows becomes our sorrows. It is here, perhaps, where she is most a mother. Children want to be with their mother. They want to know that she sees, knows, and loves them. Like the baby who stops crying when he hears his mother’s voice, so are we comforted by our mother’s presence in any given situation. It’s easy to forget in the middle of diapers, night feedings, homework, and meal preparation. It’s hard to remember when we’re aching over the misfortunes and wounds of adult children, battling big lies and facing great fears. To a mother, it all matters. 

I knew Ian for only 45 minutes of this life, but I will treasure what I know for eternity. What Ian doesn’t know is that he will never be alone again. He is always at home in my heart. 

Mary our Mother, is indeed with us. She cares for us like she cared for the Apostles on that day in the upper room. She witnesses our zeal, receives our blunders, weeps over our persecution, and lingers in our longings, too. In this way, we see her showing us the first privilege of a mother in supporting, cultivating, and fostering her children spiritually and yet also, in a very real way. She wasn’t simply an observer – she received the Holy Spirit with her children. Her motherhood is, as the Preface of the Mass of Our Lady of the Cenacle tells us, “a oneness of mind and heart.”

What I experienced with Ian was a very real kind of spiritual motherhood that lives on and continues to bear fruit and love in my heart. The joy I experienced in our brief encounter helps me keep an open heart and table for whoever God sends me way. In being there for Ian, I found for myself the truth to his words: it is good not to be alone! I am not alone! Ian is always with me. I pray for him and sometimes find myself wondering what he’s doing. When I see a child riding a bike in the neighborhood, I often wonder – is that him? I see a school bus pass by and wonder, is he inside? Has he grown taller? Is he happy? Does he know that he’s loved? Please God, let him know he is loved! And I have to believe that the love and prayers he takes up in my life will bear fruit for him in a way that will only be fully known in Heaven.

Life and love are meant to be shared. Like Mary, every woman’s heart has the capacity to be given away, over and over again to the children who come and make it their home. In this way, God entrusts us to each other in special ways as family. And family sticks together, even if it’s just for a few minutes under the shade of an umbrella.

Do not be afraid to be open to life! Leave extra room at your table! You never know who might need a safe place in which to be loved and to love in return. It is, in fact, good not to be alone.

Love, Mary

“Every mystery of life has its origin in the heart.” – Hans von Balthasar

“Down by the baaaaayyyy, where the watermelons groooowwwww…”

The sound of this familiar tune came to my ears one evening while making a quick stop for Aldi essentials. The music came from the little boy sitting in the cart beside me. Far from holding back his vocal abilities, the little fellow was belting the song enthusiastically from his perch in the cart. His sandy yellow head moved to the motion of the music and his legs dangled from the seat. His eyes were closed as if enjoying the finest music from a concert stage.

“Back to my hooooome, I dare not goooooo….”

I looked around for the parents of this child, hoping to catch an eye and share a smile. They were there, but they were unaware of the concert at hand. In fact, they were engaged in their own concert of sorts – one unfortunately full of discord.

The parents were arguing.

“For if I doooooo, my mother will saaaaayyyyy…” he continued. The note of expectation in this phrase matched the need for resolve in his parents’ dispute.

The boy’s tone was steady and clear, and oh, so precious! In spite of the commotion his parents were making in that same aisle, I found my heart and mind fixed not on their argument, but on the boy. His message was clear and persistent: no one and nothing would stop this child from singing about The Bay.

He got louder. I waited for his mom or dad to disengage from their dispute to acknowledge the boy. Based on their mood, I half expected one of them to silence the child. But they didn’t; they ignored him completely. I was eager to finish the refrain with, “Did you ever see a llama, wearing a pajama?” or “Did you ever see a swan, waving a baton?” but the boy didn’t give me a chance. Instead, he launched into the refrain once again,

“Down by the baaaaayyyy, where the watermelons groooowwwww…”

His voice carried throughout the store, keeping me company while I finished my route. Over and over again, he sang the refrain, never once finishing the final sentence. As the cashier handed my receipt to me, I could see the father holding the boys hand on the way to the bathroom, his voice still echoing through the store, loud and clear.

As I left the store, his song in my heart, I found myself exploding with joy and sheer delight in the boy’s innocence and resilience. And at the same time, I found myself hurting for her – his mother.

“Oh, Mama… please don’t miss his song,” I prayed for his mother.

I could see her face in my memory: tired, worn out, and defeated. I could hear the irreverent words spoken to her husband in front the entire store in bursts of frustration and impatience. I could sense the hurt in her heart as equally irreverent words were spoken back to her by her spouse. With such a burden to bear, it seems that she couldn’t hear her son’s song. And then I realized: perhaps she wasn’t missing it at all. What if this was actually HER song from a happier day, now manifest in the son? This was, in fact, a song from home.

“My mother will say…”

And so, I took delight in the boy and his mother, thankful for the time she likely took to teach it to him. I prayed that she would soon scoop him up into her arms and tell him she loves him. I believed that she would once again sing the same song to him and tell him of home. And I resolved to be more like the boy himself, by singing loudly amidst a world of discord.

This sound of discord is forever in our ears. And right now, it seems to be the theme of the world around us. A culture of death knocks at the doors of our families, seeking to steal our memories, motivation, and morals. And yet – the song is not over. It’s only yet begun. The song of our Mother, the Church, is in our hearts. As baptized souls, our very identity is steeped in the music of a Love so great, it surpasses all other earthly loves. This song lies deep within our heart and we can, like this small boy, sing it boldly in the middle of a storm (or the dairy aisle at the grocery store!).

And the next time I stray far from The Bay, distracted by the discord around me, I pray there is someone who loves me, like this little boy, who will sing a mother’s song in my presence and call me back to who I am and the goodness around me. We can at any given moment, say “no” to the lies and distractions of the world and “yes” to the truth of who we really are and how much God loves us. Let’s be persistent and sing boldly! Ours is a song of home.

Let’s go home to The Bay, where the watermelons grow.

Yours, Mary

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

This verse has always been such a deep and abiding comfort to me.

When I fall into the muddy, messy darkness of sin, when I make a mistake that I fear deep in my gut may harm a relationship, when a season of suffering seems to meld one day into the next until my prayer life resides in a dry, lifeless desert….

I hear Him whisper it… as I come forth from the confessional, as I witness the fruit which springs forth from forgiveness and vulnerability, when the light breaks forth like the dawn and I can finally feel His presence again- the words shake my soul.

“I make all things new.”

It is a promise that is, at any given moment, always true, for any part of our lives that we allow Him into. The hope this produces in me has been amplified amidst the political and social climate of the past year. How many times in the past 13 months have I found myself sighing, shuddering, muttering in anger, despair, frustration and wondering “God WHAT are you doing? WHERE are you? What are we doing? What has this world COME to?”

And then I hear the sound of hope. “My daughter, my beloved, behold, I am making all things new.”

And then, I remember. He’s in it. He’s in all of it. In the craziness that is unfolding- He is present, powerful, loving us, pursuing us, molding us and making us new. Doing a new thing.

If you haven’t seen “the Chosen” yet, dear sister (or brother) YOU MUST. This inspired work of art and creative cinematics has changed the way I read the Gospels and has deepened my relationship with Christ and my recognition of His voice in my life. And in one of my all time favorite scenes- the one in which Jesus calls Matthew, the tax collector, to follow Him, His response to the guffaws and indignation of others is to cast a mischievous, edgy but still entirely loving glance at them and say simply “Get used to different.” This has become a tagline for the show, and, in sorts, an anthem for how I understand the Spirit moving in my life.

When I am tempted to doubt that our future has any sort of trajectory that could lead anywhere good, I remember those who walked closely with Christ, and how surprised they must have felt when they saw Him love so fiercely on sinners and outcasts, take care to heal those society had deemed unworthy, how He fearlessly interacted with lepers and slept peacefully through the storm, undisturbed by the waves…. Isn’t that what makes Him so beautiful, so enticing, so GOOD? He is different than what we thought, what we were told, what we projected onto Him from our own woundedness. He is SO much more.

Isn’t that what the apostles learned as they left everything they knew behind and followed Jesus into the homes of sinners and gentiles and ultimately to the cross? Perhaps it’s what the shepherds felt when they rushed to meet a Messiah and found a sleeping newborn?

He didn’t come for political conquest…but to do a new thing, a better thing. A different thing than what we expected. A thing we can only experience when we let ourselves be intimate with Him, and Him with us. When we activate the Holy Spirit that is so deeply ours, and let him transform. Praise Him for it!

And, sister, He’s doing it, still, today. His Spirit is alive, moving, healing- ready to recreate our understanding of who we are to Him.

Let’s be here for it, sisters, for what God’s doing in our world, in our Church and within our own stories. Even when it pushes us into the uncomfortable, or challenges cultural norms, even when it doesn’t look like imminent victory, or simply just looks different than we thought it would. Let’s get used to different, and in the same breath, never cease to expect God to be at work in a new way.

What if politics didn’t disturb our peace? What if we put down our phones and lifted our hands? What if we started encountering our neighbors with a genuine love, a real interest in their stories and desire to see Jesus heal them? What if we changed our “why” to “show me” and remained convicted that He will.

When God does a new thing, the whole earth shakes. Nations of disciples are made. Our hearts feast on a wholeness we were never thought possible.

I’m so sure of it, I can feel it in my bones…and in the quickening of my heart as I type the words I know are meant for YOU, and for the world and for a time such as this-

“Behold, I make all things new.”