There’s no doubt about it: children are demanding. 

A new mother would agree as she tirelessly spends all hours of the day learning and responding to her baby’s signs of hunger, fatigue, and discomfort – from the slightest whimper to the sudden wail.

A seasoned mother would also agree, looking back at a lifetime of hearing, “Mom!” shouted, whispered, cried, and exclaimed from big and little lungs throughout her every day.

Children are demanding. 

And yet – would you believe it? I think her child’s demands are secretly a mother’s greatest pleasure. As much as the demands themselves may take their toll on her energy and strength, it is their business that occupies her thoughts, prayers, and desires.

It’s her child’s cry that wakes a mother’s soul.

It’s her child’s need that reaches into the deepest recesses of her heart.

It’s her child’s desires that occupy her mind.

And it’s her child’s happiness and comfort that motivates her actions.

I know many new mothers who say they’ve never been happier, despite the lack of sleep. And I know many seasoned mothers who delight over a call or text message from an adult son or daughter, missing the days when her name was said more often.

While I don’t have biological children of my own, I can tell you quite decisively that it’s the demanding child who has captured my heart.

Let me introduce you to a demanding little boy who might catch your attention, too. I saw this little two or three year old boy a few weeks ago attending Mass with his parents and older siblings. He was glued to his mother for the entire Mass. If he wasn’t in her arms, he was by her side, his own little arms around her waist and his head leaning against her body as if leaning against a pillar inside the church itself. He was quite precious!

It was clear from the start that while he was trying to be still and quiet, he also had a lot of energy. So it wasn’t a complete surprise when he fell off the kneeler during the prayers for the faithful.

A loud wail echoed throughout the church, followed by a series of sniffles. The boy reached for his mother’s arms. She scooped him up and held him close. He cried and whimpered (most certainly over-reacting!) while she rubbed his back.

Suddenly, he pulled away and looked at his mother’s face with a pitiful expression. She gently kissed his cheek. He received her kiss, but did it seem completely comforted. It was clear that he wanted something more. I wondered if he wanted another kiss? I was right, he did! But he went a step further. He didn’t just want another kiss, he wanted one in a very specific place…

He wanted a kiss on his nose! He pointed to it and his mother instantly obliged. His little demand won his mother’s heart and mine. He knew how he needed his mother and he wasn’t bashful about asking – no, demanding! – her ability to provide comfort in a very specific way.

And his mother? This little boy’s good mother kissed his nose without hesitation.

Can you imagine the Child Jesus seeking love from His Mother in this way? I certainly can! I imagine Him holding on to her and being aware of her every move and action. I can even imagine Him demanding a kiss in the place where He hurt most. Who wouldn’t want to be near and cling to the Mother of all Mothers? And can you imagine how eager she was to receive Him and attend to His every need? She was, in fact, glued to His side, even at the foot of the cross.

Well now, here’s where the demanding child takes on new form in my own heart: I do believe that we are called to be the demanding child with Mary as our Mother. Of course she can fix our troubles, comfort our sorrows, and attend to our needs. But I also believe she wants to do all of that and more! She’s eager to receive us into her arms and kiss the exact places where it hurts most. She wants us to point to our nose, our eyes, our heart – and demand her motherly affection.

No doubt, Our Lord Himself did the same – and calls us to follow suit. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a rather “demanding” child who sat at the foot of Our Lord when He said, “unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.“ MT 18:3

So this Advent, as we prepare for the birth of the the Baby in the manger, let’s learn how to see His Mother with His eyes. Let’s look up from the manger with Him and demand her loving attention and care, pointing to the very places where we need her most.

I do believe she will gladly and most readily oblige!

Yours, Mary

This morning at 4 AM, my bed was empty.

There was an indent on my husband’s side of the mattress, left by him a few hours prior when the anguished cries of our toddler beckoned him down the hall to his room. When I checked the video monitor, I saw him laying there on the wood floor next to Joseph’s bed- a silent, sleeping guardian keeping any further nightmares at bay.

There was an indent on my side, too, left by me as I jumped quickly out of bed to tend to the needs of my 2 month old daughter when her cries pierced the early morning stillness. I bounced, rocked, nursed and “shushed”  until, finally, her eyelids closed and I collapsed onto the couch, her little body snug against my side.

And it was there, lying in the dark of the living room watching twilight shadows dance across the floor that I heard Jesus whisper: “Do you see me?”

The raw, tired, not yet caffeinated response I gave came curtly- “No.”

And immediately I thought of the word I had been given for this new year-

Encounter.

At first, I thought I was mistaken when the word came to mind as I prayed about how the Holy Spirit might want to frame what is to come in 2020. But the Lord persisted. Encounter. As I prayed on it further, I began to see snippets of this word and its potential impact for my life everywhere- a Facebook post, a mention in Fr.’s Sunday homily, in the generous reminder from my co-blogger and dearest friend, Mary, that the Gospels are quite literally filled with men and women encountering Christ, and having their lives completely transformed by but a brief few moments of conversation.

An “encounter”, a ‘chance meeting, but one of great significance’- took on an entirely new meaning as I pondered it in light of God’s providence and considered what it might mean to Him; that, perhaps, His desire is for me to encounter Him in every single moment of this year, even the seemingly insignificant ones.

It was with this in mind that, despite my sleepiness, I saw what the Lord was offering me with the question He had posed. “Do you see me?”- was an opportunity to meet the Lord in this private sacrifice and go deeper with Him. To encounter Him in those He had placed in my life.

And so, where I might normally grumble to myself or let the tired wear me down, I looked more closely. And I saw.

Baby Jesus, pressed to His mother’s chest as she swayed back and forth to calm His cries.

Toddler Jesus, reaching for the strong arms of his father to calm the feelings of fear brought on by a darkened room.

My Heavenly Father, willing to meet me in my own darkness to protect and calm, despite what it costs Him.

Through the lens of “encounter”, this small, secret moment of motherhood became Holy ground- an intimate experience of Jesus steeped in his humanity, of the Father loving me SO well, of the Holy Spirit turning small sacrifice into abundant grace.

And then, without skipping a beat, came the Lord’s gentle, loving whisper:

“I see you.”

In the dancing twilight shadows, rocking my crying baby, worrying over my husband and son, fighting the urge to pity myself about the early morning wake up call, Jesus saw me.

He sees me, in every little moment- every private failure, every small victory. And the littleness of my life suddenly becomes tremendous in His sight. The “moment” becomes a glimpse into the eternal. A chance, rather, providential encounter within the walls of my own home leads to the transformation required that I might more fully live out my call to love and my identity as beloved.

This morning at 4 AM, my bed was empty…but, in the gaze of my Father, my heart was abundantly full.

It felt like it could have been a scene straight out of a movie. Just moments before, my three year old son had entered our hospital room with my mom to meet his new baby sister. It was one of the sweetest experiences my heart will ever have to cherish – the way he gazed lovingly at her, stretching to plant kisses on her forehead – the high-pitched voice he used to exclaim her name over and over as the concept we had been discussing for months suddenly became a tangible embodiment before his very eyes. It lasted for some brief moments before the chaos ensued….

…that sweet, tiny baby he was so charitably loving on began to wail and my son began to bounce around the room trying to touch things, wondering aloud “why is she crying” – a nurse entered the room to collect vitals, my mom hung up the phone in frustration with my dad who could not for the life of him find a parking spot and a sweet, little old lady  entered the room and began offering suggestions to my husband as he tried to pacify our daughter. Perhaps it doesn’t sound all that chaotic- but to a less than 24 hour postpartum mom with ALL the hormones, it was enough to fill the corners of my eyes with overwhelmed tears.

The soft spoken little old lady remarked repeatedly how beautiful our children were and how my crying daughter “might be hungry,” before finally stating the reason she had entered the room in the first place. “I’m here to bring you Communion.” She said over the sound of wailing and toddler babbling and my mom speaking in hushed, frustrated tones on the phone. My heart leaped within me – Jesus! But another part of me wanted to kindly ask this woman to leave until things were a bit less chaotic and overwhelming – perhaps she could come back when I was presentable, and my baby was sleeping peacefully and my son wasn’t trying to interrupt the “Our Father” with loud gibberish. I felt deep within me that very human inclination to want to be in control of the situation before I welcomed anyone else – let alone Jesus – into it.

But… as she placed the Host upon my tongue and Jesus drew as near to me as He possibly could, I heard His voice whisper to my frazzled heart “This is exactly where I want to be.”

In the chaos. In the messiness. In the middle of the tantrums, and frustration and overwhelm.

That’s where Christ seeks me.

Seeks us.

He doesn’t wait for things to look (or feel) presentable. He comes. and He comes without judgement or disdain or impatience or even hesitation. He comes into our not-so-instagrammable moments with only love and kindness – with the sweet vulnerability and gentleness of a newborn babe. And as I’ve held my own newborn daughter

snuggled close to my chest over these past three weeks, I continue to marvel at the heart of our God- that this is how He would choose to come to us- small and fragile and humble- physically incapable of ruling or judging or dictating. Not a distant, far off King, but a child tiny enough to be held close to our hearts.

And that’s where He wishes to be. So close to us. In the middle of our unplanned, unregulated messy humanity, He wants to rest against our hearts and just be with us, bringing the peace that only a sleeping newborn could possess so effortlessly.

I have been thinking back to the hospital incident over and over again since the start of Advent- a season so easily overtaken by the hustle and bustle of trying to make things “picture perfect.”

I continue to hear that whisper, particularly at the moments I feel the sense of overwhelm crashing down on me- the sleepless 2 AM feeds, and the arguments and mom fails and the house that simply won’t stay clean- there is Jesus, whispering how deeply He longs to be present in all of it.

From the small frustrations of the mundane day to day to the deepest valleys of our most difficult sufferings, Christ wants to be there with you. To wash over you with His worthiness, and to fill the lacking spaces and to just love you.

So let us remember in these remaining two weeks before our Savior’s birth that Jesus doesn’t need us to “be prepared.” He just needs us to be ready to receive. If our hearts and homes feel more the haphazardly thrown together manger than halls perfectly decked- its simply all the more space for Him to rest in…and He rests there gladly, for no other reason than how intimately close it allows Him to be to His beloved.

Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel…into our brokenness, messiness, chaos. Bring the Peace no human hand could create, and be adored by the hearts who so desperately need You in every moment. Amen.

Love + Advent Blessings,

Faith

 

It was a simple invite to play mini-golf from an unexpected number. I saw the familiar last name in the text message, but was surprised to see that instead of an invite from Faith (who was out of town) I was invited to spend time with her husband Paul and a few guy friends one weekend last summer.

The mini golf game was so enjoyable. As we began the game, Paul declared that the winner “gets to buy Mary’s dinner afterward.” (I think it was pretty clear from the start that I wasn’t going to win.)

I felt absolutely, positively loved that day by my friend’s husband. The memory of that day has become an ongoing place of gratitude in my heart, for this is just one of countless surprises that has come from “losing” my friends to marriage.

Yes. I have “lost” more friends to marriage than I can count. It’s been 15 years since my first childhood friend started dating her now-husband. Since then, I’ve stood beside (or in the choir loft) as one friend and sister after another said “I do” to the one man of their dreams.

To the young single woman who told me recently that she’s struggling with the idea of her best friend getting married this year, I get you. It can be difficult to watch a complete stranger waltz into the life of your friend and whisk her away to a new life and a new last name.

No matter how obliging or sacrificial a friend might be, the entire dating and marriage scene changes the priorities in our friendships. And there is a natural sense of insecurity to one outside of the relationship. The reality is – when your fiend gets married, things just won’t be the same.

And do you know what I say to that?

Thank goodness!!

This past decade has opened my heart to a whole new way of looking at the “loss” of friends in marriage. The days of meeting up for burgers after work on a weekday or enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon together are over. Yet, they have ushered in new memories and moments I wouldn’t (and couldn’t!) live without.

There is no denying that my friends change when they get married. It’s something I’ve grown to understand and appreciate over time. They are, in fact, opening the great gift of their vocation and diving into a whole new world of relationship. Change is never a small word.

But the true-blue friends change in the best possible sense of the word. They become more of themselves. I see new places of surrender, sacrifice, and love pour from their lives and into their families. I see their best qualities become even better. I marvel at the ways they bravely maneuver all sorts of new territories, from in-laws on holidays and shared bank accounts to pregnancies, births, and miscarriages. These women show me what love looks like. And they welcome me into so many places of blessed messiness.

I learn through them that the struggle to trust in God’s timing and plan continues into marriage. They teach me that the need to overcome self-doubt continues into parenthood. And they point to my single life and show me that there’s nothing really solitary about it simply because they’re right there, beside me, welcoming me into their lives, homes, and families.

Their children call me “Aunt Mary” – even though I’m not technically their aunt. I get to watch tiny little people grow into smaller versions of my friends and their spouses. My musical repertoire includes rhythms with hand motions and my weekend Christmas schedule is often decided by which youngster is performing in a concert and when. Sometimes, in very special cases, I even get to share in the spiritual journey as a godmother.

Truth be told, I don’t know what I would do without my married friends and their families. Without them, I wouldn’t know just how imaginative children’s’ minds can be when telling scary stories around a bonfire. I might not be able to experience the sweet joy of a newborn’s restful weight on my chest as he sleeps. Or know what that baby’s first day is like in the hospital after she’s born.

With them, I know that it’s possible for a man to love a woman so much that he truly does lay down his life for her.

These good men do more than humor our friendships – they invest in them in a million different ways, making sacrifices and time for visits, nights out, and even adventures to foreign lands. I will never forget something my friend’s fiancé said to me when announcing their engagement and asking me to be in their wedding party, “Mary, we couldn’t imagine our wedding day without you.” I knew then that the joy that comes from sharing lives in different vocations was mutual. Because that’s exactly the way I feel about the men who marry my friends – I can’t imagine my life without them. 

So if you’ve ever wondered if a married and single friends can retain friendships beyond weddings, consider this and know that the bond between two women who share the same heart can grow, no matter how different their lives might look in the everyday. I believe it has something to do with our maternal mission as women, made for motherhood and by nature of the family, invited to sisterhood through it… much like Mary and St. Elizebeth. Perhaps Alice von Hildebrand says it best:

“A woman by her very nature is maternal — for every woman, whether … married or unmarried, is called upon to be a biological, psychological or spiritual mother — she knows intuitively that to give, to nurture, to care for others, to suffer with and for them.”

Want to grow your family? Embrace your single sister into your home – messiness and all! Or, lose your married friend for a minute so she can bring back something more.

Love, Mary

My little sister and I sat on the front step of our house in southern New Jersey like hot-pink marshmallowy children, dressed in puffy snowsuits and fluffy boots. It was cold! Our 4 and 2 year old personalities were shining in full force as Mom pointed the camcorder in our direction. I looked like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. My sister sat next to me, exploring the snow stuck to her mittens.

The scene was set for what was – and still us – one of my favorite sister memories. (Shoutout to all moms who know how to whip out the camera at just the right minute! You prove that our memories are in fact, realities.)

“What’s wrong, Mary?” Mom asked as the camera revealed me seated with my head hanging low, over-exaggerating a melancholy mood. 

“I didn’t get to help Dad shovel the driveway. Katie got to help, but I didn’t get a chance to do it,” I responded with a heavy sigh. Mine was a pathetic attempt at true sorrow. As an adult, I watch the video today and wonder how my mother witheld a giggle and an, “Oh please…”

There wasn’t much time for my mom to respond as my sister decided to take the melancholy matter into her own hands – literally. With camera still rolling, baby Kate took her snow-covered mitten and flung it in my face, waving it about as if to make it snow again right before my eyes.

It was a 2-year-old’s way of trying to lift up my heart – no words necessary.

That simple act remains, to this day, the very heart of our relationship as sisters. Even in her littleness, she knew my heart was heavy about something that could be fixed with simply a change of attitude. And she took it upon herself to be the one to try and lift me up and out of the sadness. Although I didn’t jump up and leave my sorrows after her attempt to lift my spirit (melancholics need time, folks!) it made a difference. And always will.

My sister is my other self. We shared everything as children – our experiences (both good and bad), our friends, amusements, sports, you name it! The only things we had to ourselves were our ages and our closets (because I insisted). And as adults, we continue to share in each other’s lives in deeper, more powerful ways than I could ever imagine.

Our relationship has saved me on more than one occasion, from the time she physically stood up for me against bully neighbor boys, to the time she showed up with her husband at midnight to help jump my car in a snowstorm. Sisterhood is something as fierce as it is filled with love.

I share this story today on the feast of St. Therese of Lisieux for a reason. You see, I believe that the sisterhood I describe above is for every woman – whether you have a biological sister you can count on or not. St. Therese shows us how to embrace this relationship like none other. It is impossible to learn about the life of St. Therese without also learning about the sisterhood to which she belonged. As the youngest of 6 Martin girls, little Therese’s childhood survived on sisterhood. In her autobiography, St. Therese talks about her sisters in almost every human way possible, adoring some and even somewhat quarreling with others.

Therese and her sisters shared everything together as true sisters do, including the death of their mother. Therese turned to her sister in the shadow of this loss, it was her sister Pauline she chose to be her second mother. The Martin sisters even shared the call to the very same vocation, each of them becoming a religious sister.

The Little Flower made it her mission to take a shortcut or “elevator” to Heaven so she could shower us with God’s blessings. Is it not a surprise, then, that she would leave us with this promise, “I am your sister and your friend. Never will I cease watching over you.” 

If that’s not a “big sister” thing to say and do, I don’t know what is!

St. Therese might be the littlest sister in her earthly family, but she is for each of us, the best big sister we could ever have in our hearts. She sets the example and tone for our lives, going ahead of us to lift us out of a world of suffering (melancholic Marys included). She knew sisterhood well and I think, invites us to enter into it with each other. If she could reach me and my reluctancy, she can reach you, too.

When I became a Catholic in 1996, St. Therese was all the rage. Her story was the first saint story I read and as a result, I quickly decided she was going to be my Confirmation saint. Until I read the story of St. Rose of Lima… At that point, I decided St. Therese was too popular, anyway. Every girl in my class was choosing her. And they were all receiving roses as answers to their novenas! I decided to leave the fan-girling for everyone else and let St. Therese off the hook.

In spite of my reluctance, St. Therese found me after all. In fact, I think she was there all along like the sister she is, waiting for me to get over myself and wanting only to love me and show me something greater than my heart’s desires.

She wants this for you, too. And I believe she calls us to be there for each other in the same way.

Sisterhood has shown me the ways in which we are called to support one another as women – ways that our jobs, vocations, and even our call to spiritual motherhood cannot satisfy. A sisterhood is a place of vulnerability, where we are called to leave comparison at the doorstep and be present to each other in our best and worst moments. This kind of friendship supports, protects, and strengthens us in our vocations, calling us to holiness and assuring us that we are not alone.

A true sister, like St. Therese, walks with us in our times of sorrow, rejoices with us in our good fortune, affirms our identity in times of doubt, stands with us in adversity, and most importantly, calls us to holiness. Being better sisters makes us better mothers, daughters, and wives. A true sister sister simply shares everything. 

Except clothes. That’s where I draw the line. 🙂

If you do not have a sister to call today, go to St. Therese. Start with the best of big sisters and she will, no doubt, introduce you to others. She made it her business to shower you with roses, after all! If you have a sister (or more!) you share your experiences with, hug her a little tighter today and join me in resolving to treasure the person she is to you and the world around her.

Happy feast of St. Therese! 🌹

With love, Mary

One year ago, I sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon and smiled so hard my eyes squinted for the camera. There, I gaped at the magnificent sight before me and marveled at the endless layers of stone, sand, and minerals that formed the endless range of mountains inside the earth’s crust.

I was not alone. Thousands of people joined me along the edge of the canyon that day. Some had cameras in hand, but most simply stood and gazed over the canyon, as if paralyzed by wonder. (It became clear to me then why Americans chose the Grand Canyon as the 8th Wonder of the Modern World, according to a USA Today’s November 2006 study.)

Geology was one of my greatest hobbies as a child and teenager, next to reading. My “rock collection” was embarrassingly extensive. And although I didn’t become the Geologist or Archaeologist as planned in grade school, I still have a habit of bending over to study rocks in along the road or pouring over the latest new story of an archaeological dig.

You see, I’m a big picture person who likes to dive into the details to discover how pieces work together to make a whole. I believe this explains my love of pilgrimage (the thousands of steps that make up one destination), my job in communications (studying the ways in which others perceive truth or an idea) and it even explains my love of ensemble music (two, three, four, and even 8 voice parts coming together to form the sound of the angels).

This way of thinking took on a whole new perspective at the Grand Canyon.

There, I stood at what might as well be the greatest geological treasure of the world and could neither dig into the details or grasp the big picture. It was all I could do to pick my jaw up off the ground.

I found it paralyzing in the best kind of way.

How many little details must come together to make this place so spectacular?  And how much bigger is the big picture than what my poor little eye can see?

The Grand Canyon challenged my vision and how I looked at the world right in front of me. There was no possible way I could take it all in with my human eye. The beauty extended beyond what I could fathom – the details, the “big picture.”  Even my peripheral vision was limited.  And although I could not see or understand the size of it all with my own two eyes, I simply trusted it was there – before me and below me.

Yes! Those massive mountain-like formations might be over a mile high and yet, unlike any other mountain range that invites us to look upwards, these “mountains” invite us to look beneath the surface. 

That is where my eyes began to connect with my heart.

My vision at the Grand Canyon was challenged because it wasn’t about seeing the details or the bigger picture; it was about taking delight in a sight beyond my understanding. It was about seeing the story from a new perspective.

I beheld greatness and was satisfied with the unknown.

That statement is not something I can say for my life, and yet I think that’s the beauty the Grand Canyon continues to unfold for me to this day. My life is made up of hours, days, weeks, and years – layer upon layer of simple moments. It is tested by the fire of adversity, forged by the working of grace, and holds oh so many caverns of love to create a masterpiece that I cannot begin to see or understand. But God does. Because He is the Master behind those details. And He tries to show me the masterpiece of my life every day with a new, glorious view.

What if I could, right here and right now, behold the intricate layers of my own story and be satisfied with a lack of understanding? 

What if I could trust that the unknown canyons and crevices before me will, one day, be filled with light? 

What if I could take a moment and smile so hard my eyes squint for His camera?! 

Simply put – what if I could believe that God loves me more than what my poor little human eye can perceive?

Dear friend, a whole year has passed since I stood in this place. And I am only now beginning to unpack what could be perhaps the most important question of all. I invite you into this quest with me. Let’s pray to know not the intricacies of how God loves us, but the simplicity of how MUCH God loves.

Because it’s so much grander than we can imagine.

Yours, Mary

To my sister suffering beneath the weight of infertility,

to the one whose heart is crushed month after month, left in an endless cycle of waiting-

to the one whose whole strength goes into holding it together in the face of another pregnancy announcement-

to the one whose bitterness feels unbearable, whose joy has been stolen and faith crippled by this cross-

I think there is a sweet hope and precious promise meant just for you- and it is found in perhaps an unlikely place, in the story of St. Thomas’ doubt which we hear accounted for in the Gospels.

Poor St. Thomas- still remembered two thousand years later for the doubt he displayed in the face of the Resurrection. I used to look at his story from a place of pride and wonder how He could ever doubt the God-man He walked alongside through so much. But then I was given a diagnosis: secondary infertility; and my scorn turned to understanding. It suddenly made painfully clear sense- how a disciple so close to the heart of Christ could struggle with such profound doubt.

In my 25 years of life, I had seen suffering and known hurt. I had grieved the loss of loved ones, mourned the disintegration of friendships, felt the stab of heartbreak and walked through the uncertainty of lost opportunities and closed doors. In all of this, nothing has had the power of shaking my faith and distancing me from my Jesus the way infertility did.

It was never that I questioned God’s sovereignty- I prayed every day for the miracle I knew without a doubt He was powerful enough to give. It was His character that I began to doubt; it was my conviction that He loved me and was working all things for good which wavered beneath the weight of my aching heart. And in the midst of that raw pain- the Enemy of goodness began sowing his lies.

I began to believe them….the things I heard whispered in the back of my heart…’that if I were a better mother to the son I have, that if I were a more faithful disciple…then maybe I could earn God’s favor…that this was just “my cross” and God’s expectation was that I grin and bear it as He needn’t busy Himself with what I was feeling and experiencing.’

My subconscious acceptance of these falsehoods slowly turned to bitterness as I began to compare my life to those around me. All across my social media feeds, pregnancy announcements emerged, within my job I was met with the reality of women seeking abortion when all I wanted was to be able to conceive and I felt deep in my bones the shock of knowing that the family I had pictured and planned may never come to pass.

I felt so hurt.

And it was within this hurt and healing from it that I read the gospel account of doubting Thomas with new eyes.

Thomas must have felt so hurt, too.

He had walked alongside Jesus, too, after all. He had been counted among His dearest friends. He had been there, huddled alongside his faith community after living through the total devastation of the crucifixion and the uncertainty and fear which marked the days following.

But He wasn’t there when Jesus came…when Jesus chose to come. He wasn’t counted among those the Resurrected Lord appeared to- He wasn’t bid peace by the voice of the risen Savior. Others were given that gift…but not Him. He was left out.

I imagine that the Enemy sought Thomas in His vulnerable longing to experience the Lord in the same way those around Him had, and began whispering… “you’re not enough Thomas…maybe Jesus just didn’t want to appear to you...”

And maybe Thomas mulled over the lies until they were all he heard…until he was angry.

Until he saw the gift of the Resurrection, of New Life, as something meant for others and not for Him.

Maybe his heart ached and his faith reeled…not because He didn’t believe in Jesus’ sovereignty, but because he was no longer sure how to believe in His goodness- when it seemed to be something he had been excluded from.

Maybe that’s what fueled the seemingly bitter assertion given to his fellow apostles- “I won’t believe unless…”

Perhaps the words came from the loneliness and isolation he felt as a wearied soul surrounded by vibrant belief- his mourning set against the background of rejoicing. It’s a lonely place to be.

That was where I found myself 13 months into trying without success to conceive. I fell on my knees before Jesus in adoration, my tears hitting the carpet beneath me. As He gazed upon my pain, He whispered to the depths of my heart “I am goodness.”

I didn’t understand, right in that moment, why it mattered so much that I believe Jesus’ words…or even why these were the words He bade me amidst so painful a cross.

The deep healing came in the following weeks, when I jet set the across the country to a Blessed is She retreat , where I encountered the risen Lord in all of His goodness and glory in a way that I never had before.

I cannot completely explain the healing that took place (and words would never do it justice), I can only say that the veil of doubt was torn from my eyes in Love’s reckless pursuit of my heart. The lies I had begun to believe about who I am and who God is were put to their shame. I came to see that my hurt could not supersede God’s goodness. I experienced firsthand the truth- that He can fulfill and satisfy beyond our longings and make the desert a place of abundance.

This is the hope for us then, sisters.

Jesus pursues.

Just as He did through the locked doors of that upper room, through the closed walls of Thomas’ heart. Jesus enters. He gives Thomas what His heart so desires- an encounter of His goodness- and more. He places Thomas’ shaking hands to his wounds and in doing so, assures Thomas of His faithfulness. Not just that He has truly appeared, but that He has truly conquered death…not just that He has returned, but that He never left in the first place.

And then Jesus tells Him, “Blessed are those who have not seen and still believe.”

I used to think this was an admonishment of Thomas’ doubt. But now, through the eyes of one who has been healed, I see it as a promise.

“Even in your hurt, know that I am trustworthy. I am good. I am willing good for you. Even in your doubt, I am pursuing you to the ends of the earth. Even in the stillness and loneliness of an unfulfilled request, I am blessing you. I can heal you- if you let me.”

Look up to Jesus, sister. Let your pain and your anger and your doubt spill out before Him. Don’t flinch when He reaches for your hand and places it in His side. Don’t hesitate when He scoops your woundedness into the folds of His own. Fall into Him.

I can’t promise you in what way Jesus will transform your story or what goodness He will draw from your deepest place of suffering- only that He will.

He can’t help it. It’s who He is.

And even though it may feel like you’ve fallen through the cracks- you must know- He wants you to know– that you are far too precious in His sight to fall to a place where He doesn’t see every part of you and love you all the more.

So, to my sister suffering beneath the weight of infertility, know that He has come to give you life, and give it to you in abundance.

Let Him crush the cold voice that whispers to your heart the falsehood that this promise isn’t meant for you. The Holy Spirit, the advocate who cries out on your behalf, assures you that this promise is uniquely yours- that Jesus never left you, and that He never will. In your darkest heartache, His love is YOURS, to cover you, to shelter you, to fight for you, to HEAL you.

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.