Let’s face it; we’ve all had George Bailey moments. In the depths of despair, at the end of our rope, and at the edge of a precipice, we’ve stood there and at least wondered, “why am I here?” Perhaps some of have even gone so far as to whisper that which George wished for just before jumping into the river to save a drowning man, “I wish I had never been born.”

How is it that a person can make such a wish of destruction seconds before risking every danger to save the life of a complete stranger? Here lies the secret reality of anguish: that from it, one can find life.

It sounds pretty weird, or at least ironic, doesn’t it? But it’s true! And I believe that’s the secret to shining light on our own dark moments.

We can be George Bailey and his angel Clarence at the same time!

We do not have to actively search for a chance to help someone in a moment of need; the need often presents itself without any effort on our part . And the need arises not just on our good days, but on our bad days, too.

The good deed is a choice – a step outside of ourselves, of our comfort zone, and even our own grief. Sometimes, it’s a leap into ice cold water, like George, to swim with someone else’s pain.

It’s the man on the Metro train on his way home from work, earbuds in his ears, who notices an elderly woman braving the crowd with a small, rolling suitcase and gently helps steer her and her belongings into a safe corner. It’s the woman in the checkout line who offers to assist the man in the motorized cart to lift his items onto the conveyer belt. It’s the boy who shovels snow on his sidewalk and the driveway of the single mother who lives next door.

We see these actions and we think these kind people have their lives together. But George proves that is not always the case.

You see, oftentimes those who reach out to a suffering soul are often suffering great trials themselves. They choose to look outside their own destruction to offer hope to another.

Wouldn’t we be surprised to know that the man on his way home from work with the earbuds had just been fired from his job? Or that the woman at the grocery store was minutes away from paying for her own groceries with food stamps? Our hearts would melt to learn that the boy who shoveled his neighbor’s sidewalks had lost his own mother in a tragic car accident a year ago.

That is what I mean when I say we can be George Bailey and Clarence at the same time! When choosing to swim with someone else in their pain, we unknowingly made our own sorrow a little lighter. We fight as a team in someone else’s battle, remembering that we too, are not alone. We tell the stranger, “hey, you’re WORTH it”. And like an echo from Heaven, we hear that same phrase come back to us – as an angel gets his wings. This is the secret to George Bailey’s anguish.

And something tells me, if we lingered long enough in the lives of the three people mentioned above, we would find other kind souls taking action in their lives. We would see a loving brother-in-law helping the jobless man rewrite his resume. We would see a stranger cover the remaining $4.37 of the woman’s grocery bill when her food stamps didn’t quite cover the bill. And if we followed the boy after he finished shoveling the driveway, we would watch a kind stranger pay for his cup of hot chocolate at a nearby café.

So the next time you feel like George Bailey, remember that even he – the man who wondered why he had been born – could offer the gift of his life to make someone else’s day a little brighter. Do not be afraid to step out of your comfort zone and be a light for someone else, even if you can barely see your own. Because together with another light, even the tiniest flame becomes bigger, stronger, and brighter.

It was Hobby Lobby. At rush hour. A week before Christmas.

I stood on one side of a center island, staring at bolts of upholstery fabric marked at 50% off. Did I go to Hobby Lobby for upholstery fabric? Of course not! But there I was, suddenly remembering that I intended to re-upholster a piece of furniture in my spare bedroom – and it literally couldn’t wait.

The colors and patterns of the bolts were swimming before me. The sale was too good to walk away from (or so I told myself). The truth was, I was stalling on the real stress in my life – that Christmas list in my hand, filled with the names of store and loved ones unaccounted for under the tree.

And then I heard it… a long, drawn-out sigh. I could just make out her features and noticed a middle-aged woman almost staring back at me as she looked at the endless yards of fabric hanging on her side of the display.

It was an instant connection. Without holding back or even asking what she was looking for, I suddenly began to let loose a flood of emotions through the display. “This is crazy. I spend 8 hours every day, getting paid to be creative. And the minute I walk out of work, I come to Hobby Lobby and think I’ll have extra creative brain space to spend on my home – with a mile long Christmas to-do list? I can’t do this.” 

The woman chuckled and agreed, “Yes, It’s all so overwhelming. It’s Christmas…” She rounded the bend to approach my side of the display. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to continue the conversation or look to see if I had better fabric than she did. It didn’t matter. The folly of my frustration in that moment was revealed.

This was not what the “joy-filled expectation” was all about, and we both knew it. We wished each other “good luck” and walked away. I made my way right out the front door, crumpling up the Christmas list. If it had been a Hallmark movie, the tune to Amy Grant’s song would have been playing over the loudspeaker as I left.

The drive home was made in silence. I had fallen for the biggest trap of the consumer year: the Christmas rush, fooling myself that I was somehow falling short of Christmas if I didn’t get it all done.

A few days later, I spoke with my mom who was on day 5 of the flu, still recovering in bed from days of exhaustion and fever. Three batches of homemade cookie dough were sitting, unattended in her fridge. Presents were purchased, but none where near wrapped. Christmas dinner couldn’t be planned without creating another wave of nausea. She mourned the loss of Christmas as she knew it, falling short of the greatest day of the year.

Friends, family, co-workers – you name it! Everyone I meet is being dragged down into the idea that they are falling short of Christmas thanks to their already full lives and the never-ending to-do list.

I’m sure you have your own “falling short of Christmas” story to add. Perhaps you’re mourning the loss of a loved one? Trying to make ends meet financially? Preoccupied with your education, job, pregnancy… wherever and whatever life is dishing you at this time?

Whatever you do, dear sisters – do NOT fool yourself! You are not falling short of Christmas. Dig back into the heart of Advent and learn about the stillness of that quiet night in Bethlehem and the peaceful surrender of Mary’s heart while on top of a donkey. These are the details we should be focused on – not the amount of tinsel on our tree or the delay at Amazon Prime this week.

If you are feeling overwhelmed in these final days before the birth of Our Lord and silence seems impossible, here are four things we can do to rescue ourselves from the pre-Christmas rush:

• Say No: That’s right! Don’t be afraid to say no to yourself or someone else. It is not our job to please others or live up to the expectations we create for ourselves. And we often need someone to give us “permission” to say no. Well, look no further! Consider this your permission to say no.
• Say Yes with Mary to God’s plan for you at this point in your life. Embrace the cross, the suffering, the sickness, and the loneliness. Don’t let them get in the way with your journey toward the crib. As soon as we give in to them, we cripple ourselves and make the journey longer and harder. Look at your present sufferings as the bumps of Mary’s journey on top of that donkey while 9 months pregnant. That journey was not the end – it was the means to the relief.
• Take time to listen – even if it’s five minutes locked in your room while the kids play unsupervised (they will survive). Spend your work break in prayer or meditation instead of scrolling through your phone. Any minute you spend directing your thoughts toward the Star in the East will be far more valuable than any Christmas present you could buy for yourself. Advent can actually be our escape from a consumer holiday.
• Let go of the expectations – the due dates for the cards, the list of cookies to be made, and the perfect gift for your mother-in-law. Remember that Christmas is a season and can be enjoyed throughout the following weeks.

Let’s fall short of the consumer Christmas this year and embrace our own story in the here and the now.

The first day of Advent this year found me in a desert. It was the retreat of all retreats in Southern California desert on a backpacking excursion with dozens of like-minded Catholics. It was absolutely exhilarating! We camped in a canyon, prayed the Divine Office together throughout the day, assisted at Mass, began and ended each day with a Holy Hour in the moonlight – and walked.

To say that the majority of the trip was spend walking is an understatement. Each day, we walked through the desert hills, mountains, canyons, and open plains for hours on end. 

I had a lot of time to this and pray during this trip. There is a reason why this life is called a pilgrimage. While the advent season and Faith’s encouraging words to follow Mary’s wait help me to embrace the unknown, this walk reminded me how important action is to a fruitful wait.

I spent three entire days walking toward the beautiful –  the sunsets, the sunrises, the palm trees – never dreaming there would be a treasury of grace prepared for me along the way!

There wasn’t an actual destination in sight, physically or spiritually. We lived in the now; walking while waiting to learn more about the next step through the journey itself.

And just like the physical journey, Our Lord worked with each step in my soul – by strengthening my heart, revealing His love, and prompting me toward grace. 

Our group stopped occasionally to hydrate ourselves with the water we carried on our backs and to admire the view we were creating with our climb. Silence and prayer, also, were incorporated into the journey. (And who says you can’t eat an Oreo in the desert!?)

Imagine my surprise when one step up a steep canyon proved to be the last – and I suddenly found myself standing in an actual oasis. (Did you know an oasis was a real thing? Not a mirage or a hypothetical term for an unrealistic paradise.) Dozens of palm trees rose up from the damp ground, forming shade, cultivating life, and providing resting place for the weary. The wait was well worth the walk. And in the strangest of all ironies: the walk was well worth the wait!

There, at the top of a canyon and in the very center of an incredible oasis, the priest leading our group said Holy Mass. In the miracle of all miracles, the Creator of these wonders came in the form of a little white host.

Like Mary, who journeyed to Bethlehem in her maternal wait, who pondered in her heart, and who mourned with the Apostles and in the upper room – we are all called to not just wait, but to take action in that wait.

When we walk in the wait (very often, a desert), we accept the unknown and lift our eyes and hearts to the beautiful. We put one foot in front of the other, opening ourselves up for an adventure only God could plan for our lives. We never know when the next step may be the last one before the prize! We trust that there will be an end to the journeying, the pondering, the mourning and at that end, there will be new life – the Eucharist in a desert oasis.

Dear sisters – are you walking in your wait?

Do you leave the future into God’s hands, surrendering each step to Him along the way? Do you match His stride? Do you look up from your wait and walk toward the sunrise? Do you trust that there is an oasis at the end of your journey?

Because the view at the top is worth every step we take.

Dear Camper,

I thought of you today.

I was driving home, a familiar path I’ve traveled hundreds of times, but today, something made me think of YOU. Maybe it was the reflection of my one year old son chirping happily in his car seat in my rearview mirror. Perhaps it was the nostalgia that tends to fill us all around this time of year.

Either way, I thought of you, and as I did, my heart whispered a prayer for your wellness, your happiness, your safety.

It’s been years now, since the weeks we spent together in that glorious, magical place known as The Pines. But even after all this time, I can picture your face so clearly. Of course, I’m sure you look different now. Older. But to me you are frozen in time- one of the best times of my life.

You may not realize this, but YOU were my first experience of motherhood- my first taste of the selflessness and sacrifice that is asked of a parent on a daily basis, my first understanding of how beautiful it can be to die to oneself for the sake of another, my first experience of pouring continuously into the life of another and somehow never coming up empty.

I like to think that part of the reason God crossed our paths is because He knew that someday He’d bless me with a little baby boy who would open my heart to feel and experience and live deeply, in the same way that you did. I like to think (and I really believe) that I’m a better mother today because I knew you and loved you.

I learned so, so many things from you, you know.

From you I learned that JOY, true, deep, untouched joy is as simple as jumping in the pool on a hot summer day, singing a song in the light of a campfire, encountering Jesus for the first time in Adoration.

From you I learned that despite all the sentiments we attach to it, childhood, and especially adolescence can be HARD. My heart still aches when I think of the crosses you were carrying when I met you. But my soul leaps when I recall your bravery and kindness in the face of your suffering. I hope you are still just as brave and kind.

From you I learned unconditional love…what it looks like, what it feels like, what it IS. I learned it because I loved you unconditionally. That’s what I was asked to do, expected to do and equipped to do in the weeks I spent training for our time together. But I also learned from watching YOU love. Your friends around you. The counselors who became your family. And the God-man you met and encountered personally, maybe for the first time ever while on those campgrounds. Your love was a vivacious, full, child-like love that made me wiser, more hopeful, and better.

Yes, I’m a better one for the knowing of you, my dear camper.

I hope that wherever you are now, regardless of whether you remember me, you remember and know still the Jesus you met at summer camp. I pray He is still the most important part of your day, and that you know with certainty and believe with faith that you are the most important part of His. I hope that you have continued to experience joy, and forgiveness and LOVE the way you experienced it at The Pines. I hope that your blessings are abundant, your hurts are few and your sights are set on your heavenly homeland…and I hope that someday, I’ll see you there again and we will celebrate together, home at long last.

GO TREES ->>>

Love,

Cubby

Waiting.

 That infamous verb which, so often, doesn’t feel like a verb at all.

 We all experience phases of waiting in our lives—some short and some very, very long.

 Whether its waiting in line at the grocery store, or waiting in bed for sleep to overtake us, or waiting for results at the doctor’s office, or waiting (and then waiting some more) for Mr. Right to finally pop the question.

Some waits are sprinkled with gleeful anticipation, others marked by the anxious clenching and unclenching of fists…but really, either way, we so often see waiting as synonymous with inconvenience. And so, we are quick to curse the waiting, quick to waste it on self-pity.

In these moments, when the beauty and meaning in our waiting feels lost, thrust away into the abyss of our impatience, we can turn to the example of our Mother Mary for inspiration.

Her waiting was done on the back of a donkey as she traversed thousands of miles of wilderness leading her father and farther from home with each step. Her waiting was done in the quiet of her heart as she pondered the promise of suffering spoken to her by a prophet. Her waiting was done in an upper room, amidst the trembling and woe of her Son’s disciples as they mourned His death. How beautifully Our Lady waited!  She waited, even in the difficult moments (especially then), with a heart full of patient acceptance and unyielding trust, entirely expectant that God would bring His promises to fruition.

 Her example fortifies within us the hope that God can use our waiting, and sometimes even intends it, for our betterment. Yes, perhaps there is a gift meant for us in the waiting, a deeper sweetness brought upon by the reception of something that has been longed for and sought after; perhaps there is a growth in the waiting that widens our capacity to receive.

Perhaps that’s why Mother Church, in her wisdom, has set aside the glorious season of Advent. Contrary to the belief of popular culture, these precious weeks leading up to Christmas are not meant to merely be lumped as one into this holy day. These weeks are meant as a time of waiting. And unlike many of the other periods of waiting in my life, I have always found Advent to be a time of joyful anticipation…I truly love the feeling of building excitement as each week and each candle brings us closer to the celebration of Christmas.

But really, what would that joy be, or would it even be, without the wait?

 Of course, our sweet Jesus does not ask us to give of something which He himself has not given—we can draw comfort, too, in His examples of waiting—for 40 days in the desert, in agony in the silence of a garden, for nine months in the womb of His mother. Such is the beauty of the Incarnation for which we prepare this Advent, that our God Himself was willing to experience waiting and the weight it could beset upon the human heart.

So, my sisters , as we prepare to enter this season of waiting, let us not be dismayed. May we take immense hope in knowing we are not alone or un-thought of In our waitings, whatever they may be. And may we run quickly into the arms of the One who still patiently awaits us in the tabernacle, for even as He pursues us, He waits for us to come.

 Come, let us adore Him.

Love+Blessings,

Faith

Purple was my least favorite color as a child.

In a method of rather superstitious means, I found a way to convince myself that the color purple brought me bad luck. I always seemed to be wearing purple when sickness struck. The purple candy never tasted the same as the other colored candies. And the purple piece in every board-game was definitely jinxed. It’s no surprise then, that the outside of my Jesus Box was dark purple with a light purple stripe around the top.

The inside, no doubt – was also purple.

Although my Jesus Box did not actually have material form, in my imagination it was as real and purple as it gets. It was also battered and stuffed into the very top of my closet, secured like most shoeboxes with a few rubber bands around the outside to secure its contents. I never exposed the inside of this box to the light for fear the contents would pour out and ruin my life. Sometimes I pretended the Jesus Box wasn’t there. Other times, I forgot about it (usually when I needed it the most).

If you haven’t guessed the secret to this imaginary shoebox, you should know that the Jesus Box held all my fears.

It began by the suggestion of my mother one day when I confided to her the overwhelming nature of one of my fears. As a small child, my fears would likely make most adults smile. Did I worry what the first day of preschool was going to be like? Yes. Was I fearful of getting sick? Yes. Did I dread the orthodontist’s impressions and the constant gagging that would entail? Yes.

But in looking back, I realize that my fears grew in proportion to my maturity. Like the rest of humanity, as I grew, the realities of life grew with me. Instead of fearing preschool, I worried about my first day at college or my first job interview. I worried that my unborn baby sister wouldn’t make it. I feared the move from one part of the country to another, leaving behind all family and friends. I worried that I would witness someone die. I feared an unknown future. 

It was always the same routine, no matter how old I was: my mom would find me sitting on the side of my bed late at night, unable to sleep, with one or more of these “unknowns” weighing heavily on my heart. The thing that I feared would usually be something I could do nothing about. Mom always reminded me of this, asking, “Is there anything you can do to about it?” And the answer would be “no”. There was no way I could save my baby sister’s life. . . no way I could make sure our move to St. Louis would be full of lonliness… no way I could prevent someone who was terminally ill from dying. No way I could ensure that I would not be 30 and still single. (ha!)

“Then put it in the Jesus Box,” Mom would say. “If you’ve done everything you can do, this is not in your control. It’s in God’s. Your job is to give it to Him  – put it away in the Jesus Box. He will either make that which you fear go away or help you endure it when the time comes.”

Mom was right. When placing my fears into the “Jesus Box” I made a rule of never being able to take the fear out again for another look. It was an all or nothing practice for an all or nothing person. I’m either going to hold on to something I cannot control or completely give it up.

I’ve changed over the years – and my imagination has too. At the age of 30, I was forced to face one of my worst possible fears. For weeks, I wrestled with the unknown, trying to give that which was out of my control to the loving hands of God. I remembered the Jesus Box one night and began to unearth the old friend for another go at giving up.

But when I found my Jesus Box, I was surprised to notice that it wasn’t purple anymore. And wasn’t battered or torn.

My Jesus Box was beautiful. Like an unearthed treasure, it was brilliantly golden and solid. It begged to be taken down from the top of the closet and displayed in place of honor. And when the lid was removed, the contents did not spill out like I always thought they would. They were gone. Our Lord had taken everything I had placed inside over the course of my life and had addressed each and every fear, removing some completely and preparing me to live through others. I wasn’t really living my fears after; I was facing them with the strength of another Heart much heartier than mine.

The presence of fear will likely never change within me, but my view of God’s care for them has. The box is no longer ugly to me; it is a treasury of love and trust, waiting to take my fears and turn them into something.

My Jesus Box is no longer purple.

If you know any part of my childhood, you know that Mary Poppins was my movie growing up. Much like Jane and Michael Banks, I was mesmerized by the way this nanny floated into a small British home, brought out the spoonful of sugar to make life’s medicine go down, and danced with cartoon penguins like a poised princess. In her practically perfect way, Mary Poppins left a few golden nugget phrases for the Banks children to remember as they grew; phrases that have also followed my own childhood into adulthood. Perhaps you’ll recognize this gem?

“Sometimes a person we love, through no fault of his own, can’t see past the end of his nose.”

(Now say it again in a British accent – it’s so much better that way!)

This was the advice Mary Poppins gave the children as they wondered why their father seemed too consumed with the cares of a grey world to notice the colorful joy and love his children needed – and were eager to give.

As I grew, the weight of this sentence grew with me. It applied to relationships, family struggles, a child’s rebellion, persistence in sports – the list goes on. I can think of a million ways this sentence still applies to these things and more, even to my spiritual life. I’m sure God shakes his head when I am blinded by my own self will and stubbornness.

One could say that it’s easy to lose sight of the big picture. But this, my friends, isn’t just missing the big picture – it’s missing the basic! I’m officially proclaiming a break away from this nearsighted vision because the missed opportunities are not worth it!

Take my pilgrimage, for instance – the time I went on a 2.5 day 65 miles pilgrimage through the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York one September. I’ll never forget a certain moment on the trail as we approached the peak of another small mountain. In that moment, I had lifted up my eyes to a clump of birch trees – glowing in brilliant autumn reds, yellows, and oranges. I remember singling out one of them and thinking, “that tree is beautiful” as if I had never seen a tree before.

That realization occurred, my friends – I’m ashamed to say – at mile marker 57 as we neared the end of our trail. It took me THAT long to appreciate the simple beauty that had surrounded me for days.

I had been too consumed with the people, the cars passing by, my spiritual journey, the aches and pains of my body, and the blisters on my toes – far too consumed with everything else to notice the simple and lasting beauty surrounding me.

While focusing on all of the things I thought important and big, I was actually making my world smaller.

And I’m still doing that to this day.

How many times do I notice the stars? Thank God for the sunrise (instead of grumble my way through the buzzing alarm)? Stop whatever I’m doing to watch a goose land her “plie” on a silver pond? These wonders of nature happen every day and I often miss them in short-sighted misplacement of priorities.

Instead, my eyes scan the horizon feverishly for the “next” thing, look dolefully at the rhythm of the lines in the road, scan my phone for news and updates on others’ lives… the list goes on.

The loss could be worse – and better. Yesterday, as I was running errands, I looked up and saw a local Catholic Church a few blocks up from where I sat at a stop light. I vaguely remembered there being an evening weekday Mass offered at this parish and steered my way quite suddenly into the parking lot. Sure enough – Mass was just beginning. I decided to stay.

It was an hour out of my day – the BEST hour of my day – spent in God’s house, attending Mass, receiving Our Lord, with the bonus of Confession directly afterward. All because I looked up from the road at my surroundings and took a peek beyond the end of my nose.

As I drove home that night, I was at peace.

The errands can wait. I won’t starve if dinner is an hour late and I certainly won’t miss time wasted on social media. I want my world to be bigger, stronger, and better than the mundane and routine. The sacrifice of a minute or an hour is always going to be worth it.

I made up my mind to start looking past the end of my nose at the basic beauty around me. And who knows?

In doing so, I just might stumbled from the mundane and fall into the eternal.

Graffiti. It was a beautiful sight for sore eyes (and feet).

Unlike the graffiti we normally shake our heads over in dismay, this graffiti was different. It was written in (washable) chalk by the organizers of a “Rosary Run 5K” to honor the feast of the Holy Rosary in the public streets of our city. They had outlined the ejaculations of the Litany of Loretto in a variety of bright colors along the final half mile of the race route, which took place underneath one of the city’s major highways. It was a dark and boring place to run, with little motivation aside from the brightly decorated pillars. Collectively, this graffiti became 52 reasons for me to learn courage, hope, and persistence in the race to grace.

*Mother of Christ*

*Mother of Divine Grace*

In this last half mile of the race, my brain was frantic to focus on something that would see me through to the end. My body was tired and my spirit wavering. I honestly wondered why I had bothered to run this race in the first place. I cursed under my breath for not taking the Fun Run path.

*Virgin most faithful*

I started thinking about how I got to this race in the first place. It had been over four years since I had last attempted to run. While for some, who have the time and ability to run a 5K multiple times per week, this may seem as easy as making your bed in the morning. But for me – running this race at this time was a triumph of past pains and the promise of future achievements.

*Comforter of the Afflicted*

I had originally thought that the desire to overcome pain and discouragement of the past were my main motivators for me to run this race. But perhaps it really was the desire to thrive in a strong future that drove my spirit onward. My broken foot, much like my heart and soul, had healed from it’s wounds. And with healing, comes new strength.

Training meant starting slow and being willing to take baby steps, setbacks, and breaks. For months, I had thrust one foot in front of the other, gasped for renewed breath, and gently worked myself from the couch to a 5K. (There’s an app for that! Literally.)

*Cause of our Joy*

“Funny,” I mused as I jogged that last half mile, “I just know that I’m supposed to be here right now. Even though my body is regretting this.” The night before the race saw me up for hours, the effects of food poisoning taking its toll on my stomach well into the early morning hours. A few of my teammates had to bail for one reason after another. And my foot – the old fracture pains were starting to creep in again. I had every reason not to run the race that morning.

*Health of the sick*

Somehow, I had made it downtown in the dark hours of the morning. I checked in, pinned on my running number, took a shuttle to the starting line, and before long, the horn was blowing in my ear. My feet began to move along with the rest of the racers that morning. It was an ongoing effort to put one foot in front of the other.

*Morning Star*

And here I was – the finish line slowing coming into sight. I was too tired to pray. The ejaculations were just enough for one short breath and gave me another strength to look toward. I thought about that preparation as I was running that last half mile. (Okay, maybe walking a bit of it, too.) And then it hit me:

Preparing for this race was just like running it – and living the race of life. One foot in front of the other. One whisper after another of Mary’s powerful presence in our life as mother, comforter, health, gate, and queen. My training for a race was really a training for grace – a grace that can permeate the darkest, dreariest, and toughest of places with light.

Just as an ugly highway could become a classroom for holiness, so also can the tough moments in our lives be transformed with Our Lady’s motherly love and protection.

*Gate of heaven*

And there it was – the finish line! Perfect strangers gathered to cheer us on and lift our hearts heavenward. The pain of the past mile was lost in the joy of the present.

*Queen of the Holy Rosary*

The last of the graffiti litany lines ended with *Queen of Peace* and a sense of peace that pervaded all senses – including the urge to pass out. The doors of the church were open, so I grabbed a gatorade and stumbled inside. I thanked God for leading me in this race to Our Lady – the mother, cure, reason, and power behind every day to come. Now, I had 52 reasons to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

The victory for me was not in finishing the race – it was the journey of getting there.

*Note: In my heart, I won the race that day – regardless of my finish time. But as if by a direct nod from above, my name was called that day in the awards ceremony. It seems that I outran all by two women in my age group of 30-39. Which basically means I beat the stroller brigade. 🙂 

There is a little village nestled in the countryside of Herzegovina and Bosnia known for a beautiful tradition called ‘the wedding vows of the crucifix’. For centuries, this town has maintained the practice of centering their marriages around the Holy Cross, recognizing that there is an indissoluble relationship between that union ‘which produces human life’ and the ‘sacrifice which produces divine life’. As a result, they are likely the only city in the world that can claim a divorce rate of 0 among their 13,000 inhabitants.

Upon learning of this tradition, my husband and I were quick to find a way to incorporate it into our wedding mass. I can still recall the feeling of my fingers resting upon the wood of our Celtic Crucifix, interlocked with the fingers of my husband as we promised to love and honor one another, ALL the days of our lives. The priest then reminded us, in front of all of our loved ones (and in the words of the tradition itself) “you have found your cross; it is a cross to be loved, to be carried, not to be thrown away but to be cherished.”

It is a funny, but perhaps, quite fitting image to think of your spouse as your cross, when considered in light of the Cross of Christ. Marriage, or any vocation, isn’t easy. It’s not meant to be a light and airy experience…its meant to be lived out in the trenches of life- in the hard moments, the ones burdened with sickness, marred by hurt; the commitment is for the good times, yes, but even more for the difficult ones.

In thinking of our vocation as a cross, we can learn directly from our savior, Christ, Himself, in how to bear it. We can see from His example of humility how to embrace our cross, to take it up in our arms and cling to it- and more, cling to He who made the cross the very hallmark of  our salvation.

Often we may approach our crosses as Simon of Cyrene, hesitant, or even resistant to bear and to live what is asked of us (what we are called to!). Likely though, just as Simon’s heart was transformed from one of loathing for the cross to love of it—we, too will find that walking  the way of the cross brings us so close to our Jesus that embracing it is no longer such a terrible feat, but a life-giving and gaining one

That Celtic Crucifix present at the exchange of our wedding vows now hangs proudly above the kitchen doorway in our little home—and each day it serves as a reminder to our marriage, to our family, to me—a reminder that we are loved so much by our God that He would become human, come wade through the muck of life and experience every pain we’ve ever felt just to restore us… a reminder that suffering need not be feared, but embraced as an opportunity to love…a reminder that in the end, love always triumphs .

We adore you Oh Christ and we Praise you, because by your Holy Cross, you have redeemed the world.