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

For most of the Good Fridays I can remember, I would sit and look at the cross, focusing on how my sins nailed Jesus there. As a mode of reflective prayer, I would focus on each suffering Jesus endured- the scourging, crowning with thorns, incessant mockery and insult- thinking of the countless ways I have sinned- thinking, a heart heavy with guilt, “I did this to you.”

But this Good Friday, for the first time, I am accepting Jesus’ offer to look away from my own sin and into His loving gaze and to let His words cover my own as He whispers gently- “I did this for you.”

I am stepping from the interior of my own heart and into the interior of His- so that the identity I embrace during this solemn day is not ‘betrayer’ but “beloved”. To realize that the voice of my crucified God-man is not one of accusation, but invitation- that when He looks at me from the cross and says “I did this for you” it’s not in an “I told you so manner”- not “I did this for you because you are unworthy” but “I did this for you to DEEM you worthy.”

Good Friday- Jesus’s sacrifice, its not (and has never been) about my own inadequacy; it’s always been about our God’s abundance.

Jesus always transforms. He always redeems. There is no sin He cannot cast from our lives, no sorrow in us He cannot overcome with His joy, no darkness He cannot illuminate.

That’s what Good Friday is about, my sisters- even in its very name it shows God’s trans-formative power- that He could take humanity’s worst day ever and deem it “good”.

He does the same for you and I, wherever we’re at, whatever we’re struggling with or suffering through. He deems us good. He deems our suffering restorative as He enters into with us.

He looks to us at every step of His passion, his eyes burning not with betrayal, but with love.

And as we follow Him, let our hearts weep- not from guilt- but from wonder, absolute awe at a love so great, so big, so powerful and perfect that it makes all things new.

Jesus, as you walk this journey with and for us, create in us new hearts- hearts which encounter your Love and by it find themselves transformed. Amen.

Love+Blessings,

Faith

“Mama sit.”

My two year old, Joseph, looks up from where he is playing with the moon-sand we’ve created using flour and baby oil. He is sitting at his “little table”, in a chair just his size. Across from him, there is an empty chair which I have just vacated in my constant need to remain “busy”. “Mama, please.” He beckons earnestly. I set down the bowl I had just been drying and come kneel next to him, a smile lighting his face as I do so.

“Mama come.”

Joseph calls as he runs down the hallway towards his play room. He is off on his next adventure, and though he doesn’t necessarily need me to play “with” him, he wants me to be there to watch as he stirs his imaginary soup and races his cars along the toy track. If I get up even to go to the bathroom a few feet away, the worried call pierces the air as soon as I’m no longer in eye-sight. “Mama, COME!”

“Mama, show you!”

-are the words which excitedly follow Joseph’s every new discovery, each new mastered skill. It is not so much validation he seeks as it is being seen and known and taken joy in.

Every time I am called for and tugged at and beckoned to look, I am reminded of the most beautiful part of motherhood I’ve experienced thus far- the reality that I am enough; That while I can plan all the activities, make all the snacks and buy all the toys, at the end of the day, it is me that is sought. “What a sweet way to be loved.” I muse one afternoon as I sit watching Joseph play after being called back from the house hold chores I was attempting to get done.

In the interior of my heart, I hear a warm voice whisper, “that’s the way I love you.”

Tears spring to my eyes at the very thought of the God of the universe loving me so simply and purely. Just like my toddler, the Creator of the World wants ME, not the accomplishments I can offer Him. He wants my attention, my gaze. He just wants to be with me, to invite me into His world every chance He gets.

Scripture reminds us that God calls our trust in and love of Him to be child-like, but sometimes we forget that we are never called to do anything He hasn’t first done for us.

Take a moment today, sister, to set down your check lists, and hit the pause button on your thoughts and look to the Lord. Give Him your gaze, give him your moment. Relish in the reality that the God who created galaxies and continents wants YOU, the way that you are in THIS moment. He wants to give you every good thing, and not in the self-seeking or conditional way adults sometimes give, but in the all-encompassing, pure and joy-filled way a toddler would hand you a picture he has painted.

“The birds are signing Joseph” I say as we throw open a window to the fresh spring air that has greeted us this morning.  “birds are singing for us!” Joseph cries happily.

“Yes, my precious little one, they are.” I smile, as I draw him near.

The birds are singing, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, just for YOU, because God, in his child-like love, has made it so.

Love+Blessings,

Faith

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

When I (Faith, here!) think about the story of how original sin entered the world, I imagine that the original lie came as a whisper; Eve must have felt it like a chill down her spine when the dark voice spoke slowly and suggestively to her heart. “But why? why would God tell you not to eat from this tree. He must be keeping something from you. He must be holding out on you, Eve. Maybe He’s not really who He says He is…maybe you’re not who He says you are.”

Fast forward thousands of years later, and still, humanity is bearing the heavy, painful baggage that comes from believing that original lie. The Enemy of Goodness whispers it to our hearts on a daily basis, particularly, I think, in the midst of our hardships and sufferings. When our relationships crumble, and our loved ones wound us, when we walk through the valley of longing feeling like our prayers have gone long unanswered, when we feel ourselves overwhelmed by the storms raging around us-  Satan slips in that horrid suggestion that our God isn’t really all that good, that He is far from, if not indifferent to, our suffering.

I experienced this in a big way recently. Over a year of struggling with secondary infertility had lead my heart to a dark, deserted place, a space where I found myself entertaining that possibility that perhaps God was holding out on me….and the lies snowballed from there. I was being punished…and forgotten. God was clearly not the loving Father He promised He was (the one He’d always proven to be), but a distant judge. My silent suffering didn’t -couldn’t- matter all that much to Him, in the grand scheme of things.

It was this tower of falsehood which had begun to loom its ugly shadow over my heart and life and relationship with the Lord that finally lead me to a place on my knees in front of Jesus in the blessed Sacrament. I looked up at Him through my tears and whispered brokenly “I’m trying to give this to you, Jesus.”

His response came gently, but clear as day.

“I am goodness.”

I can’t adequately explain what happened in the weeks following that encounter, only to say that Jesus used that small, uncertain invitation into my real, raw pain to rock. my. world. I went on retreat a few weekends later, and Jesus not only spoke the light of truth into my darkness, He overwhelmed the darkness. Restoration. Healing. A newfound, rightly restored relationship with Him shattered all the falsehood I had begun to believe. It uprooted the doubt, and filled me with conviction, a conviction I now can’t help but share- a conviction that has shifted my gaze from the cross to the Resurrection, from my own inadequacy to my Father’s overabundance, from my suffering to His goodness.

Sisters- it’s true! God is who He says He is- and there is a freedom and a healing here that is meant just for YOU!

I know for many of us, this Lenten season is all about how we can grow closer to God. True, we sacrifice things to rid ourselves of bad habits (and form holy ones) and root out sin during this time. But this Lent, I want you to consider the possibility that its not about how you can grow closer to God, but instead how He wants to draw near to you…to consider that this Lent is less about our offerings, and more about the crosses we already carry, the one’s we’ve brought with us into this season. The places of deep hurt, or confusion or longing…the wounds that make it all too easy to believe that original lie. The places Jesus wants to enter into, to be with you in the midst of.

There is one scripture passage in particular (from John Chapter 11) in which we see the way the Divine Father feels about our suffering. “When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled and he said “where have you laid him?” they said to him, ‘lord come and see’. Jesus wept.”

In this moment, even before the trials of the Crucifixion, the Creator of the Universe steeps Himself in our humanity. He enters into our heartache. He is troubled by it. He feels the ache of loss deep in His bones. The hearts and bodies of his friends weep- and He weeps alongside them- His human heart for the loss of His friend and His Divine Heart for the suffering of His beloved.

All throughout scripture and all throughout our lives, God tells us who He is and what He wants to do for us. He sings a narrative of truth, and beauty and goodness over us. He shows us through a perfect track record of fidelity that He will never abandon us.

Sisters, His plan for us was never our suffering. And when we (humanity) freely chose the path of suffering, He pursued us down that path with everything He had. Where we chose suffering, He chose redemption. Where we chose separation, He chose to draw near. He became intimate with our hurt and shame preciously to void the lie that those things have the final word in our lives. Your hidden suffering, your “messiness”, the places in your heart where you weep…this is precisely where God wants to meet you and hold you and infuse you with His healing to bring about your restoration. His heart is entirely open to the entirety of yours- sin, suffering, pain and all.

Jesus sees the sacrifices you are making, the chocolate you’re not eating, the extra hours of prayer that you’re putting in, and He is so pleased by your every effort to grow. But He also sees your heartache, your frustration, your anger, your bitterness….and He wants to ENTER into it with you. He wants you to look away from the cross you’re holding and see Him standing next to you, His loving face only inches from yours, His gaze never once leaving your tears as He holds the cross beside you. He wants you to lean into Him, to press your forehead to His so that you hear, clear as day, as He whispers to your heart the truth about who you are: “daughter”.

Daughter.

Not orphaned. Not abandoned. Not unredeemable….but daughter.

Chosen. Beloved. Saved.

Remember as your walking the road to Calvary with Jesus this Lent that He’s not leading you to the cross, but BEYOND it. He’s leading you to where love proves sufficient…where light tears through the darkness and casts it aside.

In the shadow of the cross it can be so difficult to see the light of the One who is waiting for us with open arms to take our burdens upon Himself and transform them from bitter death into the sweetness of new life…but He’s there. And, oh, sisters, how good He is. How good we are, because of what He’s done for us.

His warm voice beckons you “Talitha Koum, arise, little girl, from your bitterness, your woundedness, your hurt, your questioning. Know the truth…and by the truth, be set free.”

“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!

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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

Faith, here 🙂 …I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on the story of ‘the widow’s offering’ as told in last Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 12:41-44):

^” Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents.

Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”

When most of us hear the phrase “she gave everything”—we think of the big things, the medical doctor who dropped it all to become a missionary in a foreign country, those who bravely forfeited their lives in martyrdom out of love for their faith… “everything” feels like such a big, unreachable concept to most of us living in the humdrum of our day to day lives.

I think that’s why, for many years, I read this Gospel story and, while moved by the widow’s generosity, never felt that I could claim solidarity with her or know what it is to give out of my poverty- I have always been very blessed when it comes to having my needs met.

Yet, when we look at our lives a little more closely , a little more through the eyes of Christ, we may see things differently….we find that we have the opportunity, more often than we realize, to imitate this generous widow in the way that she gives…out of her poverty, from her own places of need.

To my dear sisters who give from your poverty-

to the sleep deprived mother who, despite her own utter exhaustion from all that this vocation asks of her, stays awake long into the night to tend to her sick child,

to the teacher who stays after class to encourage and pour into the struggling student, who gives the time she doesn’t have to make an investment into another,

to the college student overwhelmed by responsibility who, despite her growing to do list, spends an hour in adoration to pray for those she loves,

to the woman experiencing loneliness who takes the time to comfort a friend with a hurting heart, even as her own aches within her,

to the woman in her season of waiting who chooses to sing praise even as her hope wearies,

to the women who’s ministries have sprung from their woundedness, those who have lost children and spouses and mothers and fathers, who have every right to mourn yet who use their proximity to pain to bring empathy and healing to others,

to the woman worn down by the weight of her own cross, who sees the need in the life of another and meets it even as her tired heart cries out “I have nothing left to give”-

To you, this giving may feel small, “ordinary”, perhaps even meaningless, but to Jesus who sees to the depths of you, it means everything.

And when this happens, when we give in this way, we are graced with understanding in a tangible way that Jesus IS sufficient, that He IS enough- even when we are not.

Oh- how learning this, how understanding it, how accepting its truth to the deepest fiber of our beings can transform our lives.

The belief that we CAN do all things through Christ who strengthens us becomes a tangible sign of His might and power- when we give that which should empty us completely only to find that still more remains.

When that wise and generous widow gave up her last two coins, she knew what she was doing was not merely an act of generosity, but one of trust. She gave everything because she trusted completely. She held nothing back because she did not fear the vulnerability it would require.

In so many ways, her generosity mirrors that of our blessed Mother- who held nothing back from her Father, not even her own life. She gave her “yes”, she surrendered all that she had…and out of over poverty, God raised our Salvation.

What about us, sisters? We all have places of poverty. We all have needs. And often, I think, we are more generous than we realize.

But the question we need to ask ourselves is- do we let Christ in to those places of poverty? Do we welcome Him into our moments and seasons of need? Do we recognize that we have the power to give everything away, even in the chaos and lackluster of our ordinary lives? Do we do so joyfully because we trust that our God is who He says He is?

I pray that we will.  That we will look at our hearts, and our lives, and all that we give through new eyes- so we can see the places God is working to transform and sustain us.

Let us put in everything and watch as from our poverty, God brings forth abundance.