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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had forgotten.

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Mary

**Aside Note: I have been sitting with this blog post for several months, not quite sure about publishing it, but I can think of NO better day than the feast of St. Therese to share how her intercession and friendship has blessed my life and walk with Christ. So, to my home girl- happy feast day!**

“Your will be done, Lord. If this is not your will, please shut the door.”

This was the simple but bold prayer we blurted in a fit of trust as we drove away from the beautiful home that had captured our hearts as first-time home buyers. Though the location was several miles from where we had our sights set (and far beyond the borders of the parish community we had come to love), it was the type of house we could picture building a home and raising our family in.

“What do you think?” My husband asked as he gripped my hand with excitement. I couldn’t hide the smile in my voice as I responded, “I think we should make an offer…”

Riiiiingggg.

I looked down at my phone as our real estate agent’s name flashed across the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Faith, it’s Steve. I’ve got some bad news….”

I felt my heart drop. Sure enough, God had shut the door, just as we’d asked Him to do, be it His will. Just ten minutes prior to our agent’s phone call, the sellers of this house we so adored accepted an offer from someone else.

Funny, I mused to myself, how disappointing an answered prayer can sometimes be.

And yet, it was the prayer we kept at the forefront of our home search as we continued onward. We knew in a market where homes were selling within just hours of being listed, we wouldn’t have the exorbitant amount of time we would normally take to sit and pray with a decision this big.

So, we moved forward, trusting God to guide us as we made decisions rather than waiting for Him to tell us which decisions to make. And guide, He did.

The next house we loved, we jumped at. We were the very first to look at it, and the first buyers to make an offer, which we truly believed to be a solid and fair one. “Shut the door, Lord, if this isn’t your will.”

We anxiously awaited for the seller to review the numerous offers he’d gotten, certain that ours would be the best. Four days later, our agent called us, sympathy in his voice as he told us they’d gone with another offer. Our search was back on.

By this point, I was disappointed and frustrated. We had looked at countless houses. We had made two strides forward on two different houses only to be set back at the beginning. This was not the fun, dreamy experience I imagined first time home-buying would be.

Even still, somewhere deep in my heart was a welling of gratitude and awe. We were trusting Jesus…and He was delivering, in a very tangible way.

The next “this is it” house we looked at felt different from the start. We went to the open house after Sunday mass. We were pleased by everything we saw and we felt willing to make a more aggressive offer than we had previously. We prayed, asking God to give us a dollar amount. He laid one on my heart. We called our agent and he drew up papers. I realized, on the drive home from signing them, that it was the feast day of St. Therese of Lisuex, a saint to whom I’ve had a long time devotion, and whose little way to Jesus has always inspired my own walk alongside Him.

We asked for her intercession and surrendered the outcome, whatever it may be, to the Lord.

That night, we got a call from our agent who exclaimed excitedly: “Congratulations, they’ve accepted your offer!”

I felt the praise lift from my heart to the Heavens.

Fast-forward several days- we received a call from our Inspector that there was a major issue with the layout of the duct work in the house that would need to be re-done in order for it to be safe to reside in the home. We felt our hearts sink as we braced for further disappointment. In short, we had to alter our offer on the home to one that was several thousand dollars less than our original offer, which meant there was a good chance the sellers would back out and put the home back on the market. We stood our ground with our offer, knowing we could not, in good conscience, buy the home unless we were certain we could obtain the necessary fixes. That evening, on our way home from a Matt Maher concert, our agent called us again. I could hear his smile through the phone. “Good news- they accepted your new offer.”

We arrived back to our rental home, thanked my sister-in-law for spending her evening babysitting Joe so we could attend the concert and settled in for the night. I was surprised to find a beautiful red rose sitting on our kitchen table in a glass of water…not putting the puzzle pieces together until the next day, I realized I had found the rose  within the hour of hearing the news from our agent that the house was still ours. I felt the goosebumps appear on my skin as I thought of St. Therese; we had asked for her intercession and there, on the day of our answered prayer, was a beautiful rose waiting for us- a tangible reminder for us of God’s faithfulness and nearness to even the smallest worries in our lives.

We have now been living in our sweet little home for half a year, despite other road bumps encountered before the deal was totally sealed (another post for another time) and could not be more grateful or blessed to be where we are at. We are nearer to my parents, to some of our best friends, to our Church Community…and over the past year have had the blessing of getting to know our next door neighbor, Ms. Barbara, who we have been able to help serve through some difficult transitions.

As in many other places in my life, I look back on the (literal) shut doors with gratitude, awe- humbled to have been able to witness the Holy Spirit moving so clearly in our chaotic discernment. Not only has this house become the safe-haven for our domestic Church, the place we pray and grow and learn together, but it is a physical reminder of what happens when we follow the example of saints like Therese and trust wholeheartedly in Jesus; when we step into His loving arms and relinquish our will and surrender the control we never really had to begin with, He provides.

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was only one thing left to fear – me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Mary

“Time just flew by, Mary! Life is so short.” Even as she said it some time ago, I wondered and I remembered. My 85-year-old grandmother is one of the holiest people I know, having attained tremendous graces throughout her life, and claiming four children, 29 grandchildren, and one great-grandchild to her name. This courageous woman packed more action in her 85 years than I could expect to live in a century. And yet, she marvels at life’s speed and seeks each day to serve Him more in these latter years of her life.

I find myself reflecting on my grandmother’s words often when time becomes a burden. Because sometimes, I gauge the timeline of my own life – where I’ve come from, where I’m going, and wondering when its “too late” to put aside certain hopes and dreams for my future. And whether she knew it or not at the time, my grandmother’s words continue to help me keep my eyes focused on the goal of Heaven in the timeline of my own life.

Last week, I thought a lot about my only surviving grandparent, mainly because the Church celebrated the feast of one of her favorite saints, St. Anne. Considering that St. Anne was a grandmother herself (and the ultimate grandmother, I might add!), I think these two have a lot in common. I imagine St. Anne would have her own advice to add to my grandmother’s words of wisdom: “It is never too late. You are never too old.”

Feeling old. Behind. Too late.

Even in the complete surrender of our hearts, a piece of our timeline is often reserved with hope and a bit of expectation of how things should be. We do it with all areas of life… earning a college degree, getting married, having children, buying a home.

For me, this timeline is most often reflected in the active wait of the single state for marriage and family. And it shows it’s ugly head in every stage…

I remember a young 16 year old once telling me she “didn’t want to be me” when referring to me still being single at the age of 25. Back then, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the me of today, still single at 32. But here I am – and do you know what? I wouldn’t give back one single year. And that’s saying a lot. As I get older, age takes on a whole new viewpoint. 40 becomes the new 30 and women reassess their own biological timeline.

I heard a 24 year old recently bemoan her age in comparison to where she thinks she should be in life. What may seem like impatience, I believe, is an eagerness met with the frustration of not having control over the ball of time – which is in God’s court. So she too, in her youth, feels “old”.

At the heart of it all and in the minds of most is the nagging question, asked more often than it should in the moment of feeling old: when is it too late?

Dear sisters, let me wrap the answer up in the advice of my own two grandmothers: if life is so short, than it’s never too late.

Marriage, family, college, house – they are the goal. Heaven is. Even at 85 years old, my grandmother is not too old to offer each breath of each day she has to the God who created her. It’s not too late to tell Him again just how much she loves Him. It’s never too late to let Him work through her. There is still so much work to be done – so much to bring to the Master of the Vineyard. 

And then, there is St. Anne, who by her very life leaves open the door of Hope in our unanswered prayers and future God has in store for us. She tells us to be faithful and hopeful in the Lord – to be the tool of God and not of the world. Her story gives us courage to live out the story God has planned for us. It is so much better than our own and transcends time, age, and the biological clock.

St. Anne was, to the world, the most unlikely candidate to become the grandmother of God and mother to Mary. But God chose her – the one to whom it seemed unlikely and incapable. God the Father looked down from His throne and pointed to Anne for his mother’s mother… gifting the tears of her barren womb with a sinless soul.

Her story tells us to keep asking and trusting. The gifts He wants to give us are not exactly made to order. They are better than we could ever order!!! And they are given in His perfect time. 

He chose St. Anne to be His grandmother. And with the same singular love, He is choosing you to be that soul who is like none other. The one who loves Him like no one else can, serve Him like no one else is serving Him, and be the daughter who’s place in His heart cannot be filled by another. And there is no timeline to this great privilege!

Have a lovely week!

Mary

I (Faith, here!) remember the first time I heard Jesus’ Divine Mercy described as an “ocean”.

“Immerse us in the ocean of your mercy, Lord” I have prayed fervently, time and time again, whether beseeching this grace for the betterment of my little family or that of the entire human race. It has always made sense to me, the idea of God’s mercy being an ocean. The ocean is vast, its depths fathomless.

It seems it would be only fitting to liken God’s mercy to such as the sea.

I was thinking this same thing as I admired the beautiful ocean stretched out to the horizon while standing ashore Crystal Beach in Destin, Florida just a week ago, my son excitedly clutching my hand next to me.

One of the greatest joys of that trip to Destin was being able to introduce him to the ocean for the very first time. As most toddlers, he is quite repetitive. Give him a snack, and he’ll undoubtedly ask for “more”, even after eating the entire bag of teddy grahams. Tickle his belly in a way that leaves his little body shaking with laughter and he will, without fail, beg through his giggles “again.” That is one of his favorite words in fact, one he will impart when something which sends wonder through him happens.

He hears/sees a plane in the sky? A clap of thunder resounds? We drive past a bridge (his current obsession)?

Without missing a beat, he’ll turn to me, his eyes wide, and beseech “Again?”

And so it was with much joy (and satisfaction) that, as he stood in the surf for the first time, grinning from ear to ear as a wave washed past his knees and looked up to joyfully ask “again?”, that I was able to say “Yes, sweetie. Again. It will happen again. And again. And again. You’ve only to stand there and let it hit you.”                                                              

And then it hit me…to the right, the sun was setting behind a string of condos and buildings, smearing the sky into a pink and orange covered canvas… to the left stretched miles and miles of sand, the whitest I’ve ever seen… and in front of me, the ocean moved and breathed and danced—her tide hurling itself upon my toes, receding seconds later, only to return once again.

Over and over (and over) again, this happened.

I realized in that moment that it is not just the seeming endlessness of the ocean that makes it comparable to God’s mercy. It’s also its rhythm. It’s motion.

It returns.

Without fail.

Every time.

That is the movement of God’s mercy. It is a tide that will only ever return to beckon us Home, no matter how many times we fail.

It is as present to us in the moments that we doubt it as in the moments we seek it.

It is always there, always coming back to us, calling out to us. Just like grace, it is a gift given freely…just like grace, it is one which we must accept in order for it to accomplish its work in our lives.

I’d like to imagine that God, in His infinite goodness, saw us as we are, people subject to living within minutes and seconds and hours, people ever changing, growing- always in motion- and knew that we would need His Mercy  to be the same way in order for it to reach us where we are, at any given moment.

Perhaps that’s why Scripture tells us that God’s mercies for us are new every morning.

Just as the waves of the sea continually wash upon the shore, changing its composition a little at a time, so, too, is the Lord’s mercy ,thrusting itself against the sands of our hearts, ready to erode away the parts of our lives that are not for our good or His greater glory—to make us new.

To make us whole.

Zero.

It’s a number that usually indicates absence. But for me, at the end of my Camino, the number zero represented a fullness I had never experienced before in my life. It was not only the end of a long and arduous journey, it was also the beginning of a new walk for me – the uniting of my own life’s pilgrimage and the Camino de Santiago beyond the hills (or mountains!) of Spain.

When I started the adventure almost a week prior, the tall Camino markers read 114 km to Santiago. In true newbie zeal, I’m pretty sure I stopped to take a picture with that first route marker. (Okay. Maybe I stopped for the first twenty markers!) Pilgrims on their 23rd day walking from Saint Jean chuckled as they walked past me, saying, “That energy! We need to remember that energy!” I was like a kid in a candy shop. I was on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela and wasn’t about to let the experience escape my eye – or my camera.

While the zeal for the markers definitely escaped my notice in the miles to come (when all I wanted to see was the sign of civilization or a patch of flat ground!) my interest in these route markers and the knowledge of my place on the map only increased. Each one was designed specifically for the region of Galacia and contained a scallop shell (the official symbol of the Camino), a yellow arrow pointing the direction of the route, and the number of kilometers left to reach Santiago. 

The route markers were positioned at almost every major roadway crossing. When I saw one, I knew that I was on the right track. And I also knew I wasn’t alone. Millions of pilgrims had the same steps before me for hundreds of years. And millions of pilgrims behind me were preparing to take these same steps, still yet to come.

But no matter where I was in the journey, the route markers that came into sight were like a little high-fives from the ancient trail – reminders of just how far I had walked and of how much more I still had to go.

Sometimes that number was a surprise. “Wow! We’re in the 60’s now? Only 60 kilometers left until Santiago? Let’s DO this thing!”

Other times, that number was a surprise in a different way, “I’ve been walking for an hour and I’ve only gone 1.5 kilometers? Didn’t I just see that tree awhile ago? Wait. Am I walking in circles?… Am I still in Spain?”

As I approached Santiago, and noticed the single digit countdown, my heart battled the excitement of nearing the prize with the sadness of leaving behind more than a roadway, but a way of life.

I had learned to embrace the journey (a story for another time!) and every single experience that came with each step. From the minute I began counting down from 114, I had accepted an invitation to surrender my will and my way to The Way, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. To me, each route marker on the Camino de Santiago was a link to the past, present, and the future.  As numbers of the kilometers decreased, my love for them and the lessons learned on the Way increased.

Zero.

It was the official “end” to my walking. But for me, it was a “reset” to the way I walk through my own life. Because I don’t know about you, but I do not want to mindlessly count down the kilometers of each day in hast, desperation, or ignorance. No way!

I want to look ahead of me and know that there’s a Santiago – a Heaven – waiting for me at the end.

I want to look behind me and see a mountain range of little victories over sufferings endured.

I want to look before me and see the here and the now, appreciating this moment as an valuable gift that will never come my way again.

Instead of counting kilometers, I want to count graces from God, virtues learned, and lessons practiced.

My life’s Camino reset at zero on that day in late June with 114 kilometers behind me. Ahead of me lies a journey of uncounted kilometers  – however many He sees fit. May I walk them in the same stride as I did on the Camino de Santiago.

Last weekend, I had the privilege of attending the 3^rd annual Pro-Life Women’s Conference put on by Abby Johnson’s ministry “And Then There were None” in conjunction with several other fantastic sponsors. I’ll be honest, as someone who has been actively working in the pro-life movement since junior year of college, I pridefully and wrongfully assumed most of what I’d be hearing would be things I already knew. And while there were a lot of things that I already “knew” with my head, God absolutely used this weekend to RE-new my heart for the pro-life effort and remind me of these seven imperative lessons for any and all of us who consider ourselves pro-life:

*disclaimer: please note that the following represent my personal views/interpretations, and are in no way representative of any of the views held by the aforementioned organizations

1) The pro-life movement (encompassing all issues concerning the dignity of human life, from conception to natural death) is one of RESTORATION. What I mean by that, is that at the heart of our work in these matters is (or should be) an effort to ‘restore  to a truth’ rather than “fix a “problem”. These issues we find ourselves facing—abortion…euthanasia…suicide…these are wounds. They are symptoms, not the root, of the brokenness that exists in our fallen world. Having personally discussed this with many a philosopher, I truly believe that at the crux of these wounds is an identity crisis. (for which Theology of the Body is TOTALLY the anecdote – but I digress, another post for another time). As a collective society, we have forgotten or for some, perhaps, never understood or been told, that our inherent dignity lies outside of ourselves and in the One who created us; that it is in Him alone we will find true satisfaction & true knowing of ourselves. If we don’t know our Father, and are thus, unable to truly know ourselves, we will not know where to go to fill the voids that inevitably plague us—the ones that cannot be filled by relational love, or temporary highs, or attaining. And when we fail to understand where to receive this affirmation of our dignity which we so desire, our lives will be spent searching for restoration IN the brokenness rather than beyond it. We as pro-life people are called to be bearers of a Truth and bringers of a Light that will restore what has been disordered by sin, namely, the reality and origin of the dignity of every human life.

2)  We should never use another person/group/etc’s pain as a platform for our agenda. There is no denying that abortion is one of, if not the greatest, human rights tragedy of our time. It is the cause of millions upon millions of deaths. It is loss on a scale of epic proportion. But the place to argue this, is not in the wake of someone else’s grief, regardless of whether or not we believe the grief to be ‘valid’. We should never come to that table, with comparison as our goal. The first words to leap from our lips in the discussion of other humanitarian issues should never be “Oh yeah? Well abortion is more tragic than that.” We are pro-life—when a human heart is breaking, hurting, aching, regardless of what brought that about, we should always meet that first and foremost with compassion.

3)  We need to reclaim the narrative surrounding abortion, motherhood, womanhood, and adoption. One fantastic speaker reminded us in her break-out session- “Words shape perception and perception shapes reality.” The smallest words can make the biggest difference in how something is perceived. One example provided at the conference was concerning the perception of adoption in our society. When we use certain phrases like “giving a baby up for adoption” we, often unintentionally, perpetuate a fear surrounding this life-giving, love-giving option. When we say “make an adoption plan” – the whole perception changes, from a mother who is  abandoning a child to one who is intentionally and purposefully making a plan to give that baby a different opportunity than what she can provide. Which is exactly why we need to be SO intentional with our words surrounding all life issues. We need to choose language that validates, that encourages and that authentically empowers those whom we talk to and those whom we talk about.

4)  Community is what happens when we come alongside others and walk with them where they are at. Most people would pin community as a place or a group of people. A noun. But I learned this weekend that true community is a verb. It’s something that happens when ACTION is taken. Community is an outward sign of the Holy Spirit at work within our hearts and our relationships, and when authentic community happens, it is a beautiful sight to behold and a force to be reckoned with.

5)  Our most imperative pro-life work will be accomplished in the smallest things. In loving our spouses. In teaching our children. In being a friend. And so we must be careful not to fall into the notion that being pro-life has more to do with our voting ballot than with how we live our lives day to day. Pro-life is meant to happen at the heart level, first, and flow outward from there. It is not just to be a value we hold, but a mannerism in which we live, speak, act and treat those around us.

6) OUR. Stories. Matter. SO much. And, on one level or another, we are each called to share them. Whether we are mothers, or grandmothers, or students, or single young adults—whether we’ve known great suffering or not—whatever God has done or is doing in our lives, is not meant just for us. Revelation 12:11 says “they have conquered him by the blood of the lamb and the word of their testimony.” This verse in itself is proof that not only does your story matter, it is needed to overcome the work of the Enemy of Life in our world. He is conquered by Jesus, and then again by us sharing who Jesus is in our lives and what He has done for us. Boom- double whammy. So never let yourself be told that you are too young, or your wounds too deep or your past too dark. I pray that each of us, when the opportunities arise, will have the courage to share our hearts knowing that what God will do with our courage is far greater and more important than anything that we have to fear.

7)  We as the ‘pro-life movement’ are victorious- but the victory is not “ours” to claim. This probably sounds like an oxymoron, but what I mean is…(as said by one of the fantastic speakers to grace the main stage) “we are walking from a place of victory, not to it” wait. Pause. read that again. “We are walking from a place of victory, not to it.”… because God already conquered all that we are battling. Sin. Death. He has defeated it! And so we have the advantage of knowing the outcome…we WIN, sisters! And that should allow us to go into this battle joyfully. That is why we can be filled with hope even as we stare directly into the face of evil, ugly things. But we cannot do this unless we remember whose victory we carry…it isn’t ours, its God’s. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard pro-life leaders, speakers, ministries, claim that “they” or “we” will be the ones to end abortion in our time. NO, my beloved brethren, “we” will not. The Enemy of Life would certainly love for us to think just that. That somehow, “we” can do it. To put the pressure of such a responsibility on our shoulders and watch as it drains us of our energy, passion and love until nothing but despair and bitterness remain. WE can claim victory because we have been claimed BY Victory, by our Victorious God. Because we are HIS and our identity is in Him and Him alone.

 

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If you’ve made it all the way to the bottom of this post, thank you for sticking it out and reading to the end. I pray this sharing of what I learned will be a source of encouragement, or inspiration, or call to action (or whatever it is that the Lord knows you may need) as you continue to uphold the dignity of every life in all aspects of your own. And if you’d like to continue the conversation started at this conference, I’d love to hear your thoughts and share more of my own- feel free to comment or email!

Love+Blessings,

Faith

Hello dear readers and happy summer! We’re pausing to check in with YOU as we checked in with each other over this past weekend over a wonderful breakfast and even better company.

Life has been a little bit crazy-busy for the both of us (as you may have deduced from the lack of consistent blogging over the past couple months) – with weddings, graduations (including Joseph’s medal ceremony as he transitions from the ‘baby’ to ‘toddler’ class at his gym) and planning for summer trips and vacations all crowding around the calendars. Mary is preparing to walk the Camino de Santiago in Spain soon and Faith is bracing herself for a twelve hour car ride with a twenty month old. Both daunting tasks!

Yet, Despite the busyness of these seasons of our lives, Jesus continues to still our hearts with His love and remind us who all these efforts are for. He continues to teach us about trusting Him wholly, reminding us that despite all the chaos we may muddle through, the best laid plans we pour into pursuing (including the times they go awry) HE is sufficient, through and in it all.

And what better way to remember this than to dive into the abyss of love found in the Sacred Heart? During this month dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, we encourage you as we do one another to rest our heads longer on the chest of our Sweet Savior, as did the beloved apostle St. John, in order to hear the sound of it beating on our behalf. If we listen, we can hear it pounding with love, mercy, compassion, forgiveness – a perfect combination of humanity with the Divine. Truly it is a heart for our hearts, One strong enough to withstand our every doubt, fear, rejection- One stronger, even, than death.

Will you join us there for awhile? Will you join us in seeking this Heart which so tirelessly pursues us?

With all our love,

Mary & Faith

It was seven o’clock in the morning in Lambert St. Louis Airport last winter when I headed, not to my gate, but to the familiar double D branded awning that just opened its doors. Dunkin Donuts is always my #1 priority after a TSA approval. As I waited for my latte at the counter, I turned around and began the second-best part to airport travel – people watching.

Almost immediately, I noticed two nuns in full habit enter the gate across from me. They sat down at a high top charging station and commenced talking between each other. It was then that I felt it – a nudge.

I was traveling alone and knew that the nudge wasn’t coming from an outside source… it was a nudge from within to jump out beyond my comfort zone. It’s in moments like these that I relate to the clown fish in “Finding Nemo.” The father fish, Marlin, teaches his son how to leave the confines of their underwater home by telling him, “First we go out a little then we go back back in a little. And then we go back out, and then back in.” The “out and in” battle was waging as my internal comfort zone. The nudge to “go out” finally won and I found myself standing in front of two fully habited nuns.

I introduced myself to the sisters and asked about their travels, offering to buy them breakfast. They declined, saying that they were waiting for the Burger King to open nearby later that morning. (Sisters with stomaches of steel, I thought!) We chatted for a few minutes and shared a bit of our travels with each other. It was Advent and we were all headed to retreats at opposite ends of the country. We exchanged intentions for prayer before I headed off to find my own gate.

“How cool was that?” I mused as I walked sat on my plane an hour later, “Here I am traveling alone and I’m suddenly a part of other people’s adventures.” Even better – those adventures we were now sharing in a spirit of prayer before the Lord.

It took a nudge – an inward call to step out beyond the invisible wall of comfort vs. daring in order to discover more about the world and the people around me. And this was certainly not the first time I had noticed the nudge. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I owed much of the happiness of my life to that nudge.

It was, in fact, the same nudge that prompted me over the years to open my doors to friends and strangers when I was less than “ready” to entertain guests; those moments building some of the strongest friendships I now enjoy.

It was acting on the nudge that landed me a job, an audition, and a raise. Taking the risk and jumping out of my comfort zone meant overcoming the fear of failure. The result? Always moving forward and being able to discover more or lay a question to rest.

The nudge was ever-present in my pro-life job on the sidewalk when counseling women entering the abortion facility. In many situations, this nudge became a giant force of grace to guide women to a place of life-giving support. This kind of nudge, I am sure, was the Holy Spirit.

In my life as a whole, these nudges remind me of a line up of dominos. By itself, a single domino is only a few inches in length, stiff, and thin. But when standing on end and gently nudged, a wave of movement ensues that extends far and wide and at an accelerated speed. This movement is caused simply by a series of nudges – just like the ones that come in our own lives when we dare beyond our comfort zone. And in the end, instead of standing alone, we find ourselves surrounded by others and sharing in each others’ adventures.

So the next time you are hesitant to take a risk, reach out, or jump into the unknown, remember the power of the nudge and the fruits that come when we look outside ourselves and take interest in the world around us. It takes effort and a little bit of daring. And it’s always worth it!

Love, Mary

There he was, waiting for me in the back of the church. His little suit was pressed and his shoes were shined. It was his First Communion Day, and instead of standing with the other children, Little G was waiting in the very last pew of the church for me to pass by as I made my ascent to the choir loft.

His eyes were shining and I couldn’t tell if it was with excitement or with that boyish bashfulness he often showed to me when I frequently stooped in to give him his godmother’s blessing on his forehead.

In his hands was a single pink rose, carefully wrapped with water near the stem to keep it alive. As I walked toward him, he courageously took a step toward me. And like the little man he was, Little G held out the flower and mumbled, “Happy Mother’s Day” to me in a tone that betrayed his memorization.

And oh, my heart! It melted right there in that moment as I took the rose from his hands and stooped down for a hug. I told him just how happy I was that he was going to receive Jesus in just a few minutes and I thanked him for remembering me, even on this, his big day.

You see, this was not the first time Little G remembered me on Mothers Day. In fact, this was an annual tradition that had occurred since the year he was born. Of course his mother had the guiding hand in this endeavor, her knowledge and appreciation of the godparents’ role in her children’s’ lives spearheading this this gift, year after year.

The fruit of this single flower each year is the cause of a much larger gift of purpose in my mother’s heart. It is very very easy, as a single woman waiting for marriage to begin a family, to feel an absence of motherhood in the midst of her singleness. To be perfectly honest, the most I grow to know and cherish the vocation of motherhood and the sacrifice of her life for her children, the more I am tempted to feel the impact of that call unanswered in the recesses of my own heart.

[Others know this pain all too well, and even more than I do, with loss and infertility a constant topic of prayer in my own Catholic community. That is another, braver, stronger post for another day by someone much more qualified than I am.]

When I’m tempted to feel this absence, dear sisters, I stop myself and remember Little G’s red roses – the gifts of each year compiled into one giant bouquet. His gift reminds me that all women are called to maternity and all women are given the chance to live it out in every stage of their lives. It just happens for some in different ways than others.

Some women are spiritual mothers. They hold the care of a child’s soul in their heart and prayers, taking on this responsibility of seeing them to sainthood for their rest of their lives.

Others share their maternal hearts with children as a motherly, grandmotherly, or godmotherly figure. They jump into a hole within a young person’s life, filling the void with love, direction, encouragement, and prayer.

Some women give their maternity through the Church as a religious or consecrated virgin, taking on all souls as their children, with Christ as their spouse.

And all of us, dear sisters can fulfill our call to maternity by looking to Mary as our guide. Alice von Hildebrand explains , “The Blessed Mother’s role in the Incarnation points to the true privilege of being a woman. Both virginity and maternity meet in Mary who exhibits the feminine gifts of purity, receptivity to God’s word, and life-giving nurturance at their highest.”

That’s right! The practice of purity is of itself an act of our maternity. It is a virtue to be practiced by all women in all states of life. . . it reaches out beyond the practical and into the eternal, cultivating the greatest life a woman can give to the world. And for that gift to the world, your heavenly crown will no doubt be strewn with white roses.

Today, dear Single Sister on Mother’s Day – I invite you to join me in celebrating the virtue of purity and cultivating the roses of maternity that Our Lord has placed in your path right now. Be the best mentor you can be, the best godmother you can be, and the best spiritual mother you can be. Your fruitful love, rooted in purity, can only bear an abundance of fruit to be passed down to generations to come.

God bless, Mary