Dear God, it's foggy!

Did you know that Zelie Martin yelled at her daughter, Marie, at least once? The mother of St. Therese of Lisieux tells the story in a letter to her sister, a Visitation nun. Zelie was in great pain from her breast cancer and Marie told her, "Mama! Don't make that face, it's worrying auntie!" Zelie snapped back, "Well, I'm doing the best I can!"

She regretted it.

In that same letter, she writes of how irritable she has become in her final illness, of her anxiety for her children who will soon be orphaned, and of their financial woes.

Her life had become for her a fog and darkness.

Sounds familiar. When I was in the throes of postpartum depression and anxiety last year, everything was a fog. I still, when the stressors of life pile up too quickly, fall back into that fog and dim twilight. Sometimes it's my own fault--I haven't slept enough or I've scheduled too many evenings out. Sometimes it can't be helped--the kids are sick, the Scientist Dad has a good 60 hours of work for a week, and the babysitter cancels. The past few weeks have been a whirl of activities--all joyful and good--and a fog of exhaustion.

And in that fog, the ugliest parts of me emerge. I snip at the Scientist Dad or my in-laws. I lose my temper and yell at the 4-year-old. I simply cannot fold another piece of laundry, even though the living room has been covered in wrinkled t-shirts for three days.

Then, it lifts.

The rain comes, Divine Mercy flooding my soul. In three days, I can get out, go to Confession, talk with a close friend, spend time with my husband, and the kids all nap at the same time. The fog clears, I look back, and what seemed like weeks of anger and frustration are transformed.

The hardest times are the most beautiful, when they're over. We can see, if we can't articulate, the presence of God.

I look back at the depression now and recognize that Todd and I came through it by no strength of our own: we were so totally brought low that we had no power. And when we had no power, all power was Christ. He came to us in our families, our friends, perfect strangers, and the sacraments. The extraordinary graces of our vows somehow carried us. And here we are. More humble. Older. Quieter. Happier.

This little bit of foggy weather in my heart was a little reminder of what men live by. And we do not live by bread alone.

Amen.

The Resurrection: Love we can recognize.

"If God wishes to reveal the love that he harbors for the world, this love has to be something that the world can recognize... The inner reality of love can be recognized only by love."

~Hans Urs von Balthasar, Love Alone is Credible

Who among us cannot imagine coming home to find a long-dead loved one sitting at our table--alive, laughing, well again?

Our hearts' desire to see and be always with one who has loved us, to be always in a beloved country or land--this is the promise that love has not entirely died in us.

Can you imagine the face of Mary Magdalen when she turned to see her Beloved alive and whole? Can you feel the astonishment and joy breaking in on the heart of His Mother when he first stepped into her room?

God has revealed his love to the world, because He has given us what we most recognize, although we had never before seen it. Life, light, and unfailing love. We recognize Him as our only desire, because He has never left us alone.

Alleluia!

The Harrowing of Hell.

"Something strange is happening - there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear.

"He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone: “My Lord be with you all”. Christ answered him: “And with your spirit”. He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: “Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light”."

~from "an ancient homily," in the Office of Readings for Holy Saturday

The JPII Generation.

Over at Sparks and Stubble, Fr. Griesbach has a beautiful reflection on the coming-of-age of the "John Paul II Generation." I usually roll my eyes and sigh when I hear that phrase: it conjures up for me images of bubbly, emotive co-eds waving copes of Humanae Vitae in the air before heading back to the dorms for a night of orgy. We are the children of the 60% divorce rate, MTV, "Eagles' Wings," and the stoned-out Woodstock hippies. Feel-good retreat weekends once a year have not been enough for so many of us. But Fr. Greisbach gives hope and makes me proud once again to be in the JPII Generation.

This paragraph describes so perfectly the pre-9/11, pre-scandal Church in America:

"We were basically taught that the heart of the Gospel was to love others, and that that meant we should always compromise conviction in favor of the person. The only virtue I recall being drilled into my head was that we seek to be on good terms with everyone, regardless of their point of view. To be likable. It was the underlying subtext in most moral narratives: the protagonist gives up his or her convictions or preconceived notions in order to love the antagonist."

Then he brings it home. That summer of 2003 (the summer I married Scientist Dad and we went on pilgrimage to Poland, land of the pope):

"It was all coming down around us in that summer of 2003, the summer of World Youth Day. And I think it was then, as we looked upon the humble yet strong frame of that man of God, John Paul II, that many of us realized that the generation before us had sold us a useless bill of goods, rather than the Gospel. We had not been taught the fullness of the faith, we were not given adequate tools to handle real life – to deal with evil, to seek what is good. We were not trained in the virtues, we were not given a solid foundation in logic and critical thinking, we were not exposed to the cultural and religious treasures of our western heritage. Instead, we had been brought up by a generation that was convinced that the way to show their love for us was by being likable and entertaining us. The youth ministry mantra was, I’ll never forget, the “4 F words”: food, fun, friends, and faith.

But in the face of terrorists trying to kill us, criminal priests, divorce, substance abuse, psychological illnesses, violence, and promiscuity, the 4 F words just didn’t cut it... Many of my peers left the faith, tired of being around a bunch of people who seemed obsessed with being likable, rather than being good. Who didn’t have any answers for the larger questions of life. Who didn’t seem to want to talk about suffering and death and desire and addiction.

But there were some of us who, through God’s providence and grace-filled guidance, were able to hold on to our faith. And with much struggle and prayer, we began an arduous transformation, a fundamental shift in the understanding of what it means to love and be loved as Christ has shown us. To this day we are trying to make that shift, even as we remain a conflicted generation, this JPII generation."

Sanctity is swimming against the tide for every generation. All generations shall call Her Blessed, but all generations shall curse His name. For every conflict, though there is hope.

"Slowly, and with God’s grace, many are breaking free of the appetite for a Church experience that is characterized by a warm and fuzzy group hug among people who like each other, and instead developing the desire for a new and more profound ecclesiology that is rooted in a common fidelity to Christ and sacrifice for the sake of what is true and good and beautiful. This conversion of appetite in my generation has been largely due to the reforms undertaken during the last 25 years to some of the fundamental structures of the Church. Doctrinal soundness and rigor in formation has been restored in seminaries for the most part. Core doctrines of the Church have been clearly expressed in the Catechism and in many wonderful encyclicals and other papal teachings. The liturgical excesses of the 70s and 80s have for the most part been cleared up and the new translation has brought us into greater continuity with our tradition. Bishops are for the most part speaking with one voice and in union with the Holy Father. The basic structures necessary for the continuation of Christianity in the West have been buttressed in recent decades, and the JPII generation is the first to really experience the fruit of these reforms. Thus we really bear the name of the great reformer: John Paul II."

He perfectly articulates that unbearable tension between the converts to the Church and our parents' generation:

"Yet as much as the JPII generation has been graced by the reforms of these last years, I pray that the hell that is fermenting in the West does not break lose until our children come of age. They will be much more competent to handle the wiles of the evil one. They will have had the advantage of clear Catholic teaching from their youth, of being formed by a reasonably intact liturgy and reconstructed domestic ritual of prayer. And they will not have to contend with an older, ideological and jaded generation that second guesses every effort at holiness and is threatened by any attempt at human excellence."

I pray, too, that the persecution does not come until I am buried and looking on from purgatory. I pray for my children with such great fervor now--they will suffer greatly for their faith--and I pray for the children who will persecute our children's children. How can we do anything less than give them the fullness of the faith, a constant experience of the prayer, and a knowledge that they are never alone, for the entire communion of saints is theirs?

Pope John Paul II is theirs, too. He may very well have saved my generation from hell--his soul will continue to bless my children and give them glory.

Read the whole thing here.

Discernment of Spirits.

Lent brought me a new podcast: from Discerning Hearts, Fr. Timothy Gallagher's commentary on Ignatius of Loyola's Discernment of Spirits. The opening interview alone was worthwhile for its biography of St. Ignatius (who was quite the Don Juan, rivaling Augustine in the drama of his conversion).

The interview on the Second Rule offered so much encouragement.

The Evil Spirits' Strategy

Ignatius wrote that, once the soul has turned its face toward God and begins to fly after the things of God, the evil one (the "flesh," the Devil, demons, the heart's concupiscence) changes its tactics. The heart is no longer enticed by occasions of sin--in fact, it begins to flee from or at least feels displeasure at what is unpleasant, evil, or just plain banal (you know, I really just don't want to watch Modern Family anymore). Now, he says, the Father of Lies reverses course: instead of luring the soul toward the lusts of the flesh, it lures the soul into "sadness."

I begin to think, "Who am I kidding?" or "I won't bother with that fast. After all, I failed it last week." I sometimes, after an argument with the Scientist Dad, begin to sigh, "Well, I guess we just can't talk about that subject anymore. It's not worth it." Or, I become discouraged at the concatentation of circumstances: "I'll never be able to teach Miriam--these little kids are too much! She should go to school... she's better off there than with me." Or, "What's the use of asking Todd if I can go to Stations? He'll just feel tired, and I won't be able to concentrate anyway. Too tired."

Mope. Mope. Mope.

The Father of Lies.

Being able to recognize that sadness--the "bite" of Satan, as Ignatius calls it--gives me the chance to reject it. This is only a passing mood. The reasons for avoiding the Stations, bothering Todd for a night out, that difficult conversation about our marriage, giving up on homeschooling--they are false reasons, because they cause that unreasonable sadness.

The Good Spirits' Strategy

On the other hand (thank heavens for the other hand!), Ignatius says that the good spirits (our own virtues, good desires, our angelic warriors, Christ Himself) have already won this battle. All we must do is reject the sadness, turn to them, and join in their victory.

At this point, the good spirits offer only encouragement. When the soul was turned away from God, the good things acted as the Big No-No Police. NO sex. NO cheating. NO gossip. All that is Good, when we are not good, seems to be judging and reprimanding us at all times. OOPS, you fornicated! OOPS, you cheated! OOPS, you gossiped! Repent!

That's because you did mess up. And you need to repent.

Once we choose the good and reject the bad, however, the Good is suddenly and only our friend, mentor, and joy. While evil becomes a thing of sadness, good becomes a thing of pleasure and enjoyment. We find that, when we overcome our sadness and give ourselves to others in prayer and service, we want to... pray and serve more! (Do you see how this works?)

"To those who have, more will be given."

This is heart of the discernment of good spirits: if you are choosing the good, you will desire more good. As we have been buried with Christ, we want even more to burrow deeper into Him and His suffering and passion. As we die to ourselves in Him, we want even more to die. And as we enjoy the crown--even the foretaste of the crown--we desire it more and will suffer any difficulty to see "His title and His crown."

So, if this Lent has begun to grow difficult and the sadness is in your heart, be encouraged. Your heart is turned to Christ, and He has only good things for you.

Image source.

Pillars of Salt.

"Just the place to bury a crock of gold," said Sebastian. "I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember."

Sebastian is Evelyn Waugh's tragic bright young thing in the brilliant Brideshead Revisited. His remembering becomes worship, and he clings to his irrecoverable childhood (famously in the form of his teddy bear, Aloysius). I thought of him after a conversation about remembering. We were remembering the places where we were happy: particularly college, when the world was ours and what we did with our freedom was do things that felt holy.

For 4 years, I belonged to that small sub-population at the Catholic University of America that exists mostly in the Top 5 Catholic colleges: Thomas Aquinas, Christendom, Steubenville, the University of Dallas, and... well, praise be to God, there are more than 5 now. Here is a taste:

It's just so true.

It is possible to go to Confession weekly, attend Adoration every day, say the entire Liturgy of the Hours with your dearest friends, study the Great Books and the Doctors of the Church, and be so wrapped in a world that feels comfortingly sanctified all the time.

Get this: There is nothing wrong with that. Those college years are years of intense formation. Looking back at my habits of being, I'm starting to think that I was such a cute little puppy. Have you ever watched little puppies playing? There's a reason they play. If they don't play at being big dogs (and even sometimes think that they already are big dogs), they will never get to become big dogs. If little monkeys don't get to imitate their parents, they do not survive in the wild to become the parents of new little monkeys. My Ana Therese--now 21-months old--plays intensely at dancing, mothering, and praying. I don't grudge her this time of formation, because I know it's crucial to her growth into a young woman who knows she is loved and is capable of loving. The mother delights in her children's play. Our Father delights in our play at pleasing Him.

However. We grow up.

Eventually, the Catholic girls have to leave that bubble. We graduate (sometimes only after several degrees), we enter the workforce, we marry and have children, or we enter a religious order. We grow, and even if our daily lives continue to include the Sacraments and the prayers of the Church, that comforting feeling they once gave us will leave.

I remember when I was first married and jumped out of that puppy life. I was disoriented. Where was my structure? Where was that control? Had it all been pretend? I went into mourning, because I had become so attached to that formation period. I didn't want to take my final vows and move into adulthood. Several years into childbearing, I felt like I had completely lost myself--that Catholic girl who constantly read the Fathers and prayed for hours in the chapel was gone.

She was not gone, but she was invisible. The visible reality of my sanctity, it seemed to me, collapsed under the demands of my adult vocation. Graduates of that formation period have several reactions to the change: Some old friends have declared that all of our prayers and sacrifices were a farce. Because the farce was exposed, it had nothing enduring to offer. It was fun, but now we are beyond all that. This is not true.

It mistakes the path for the summit. It mistakes the stream for the source.

When a seed is buried in the earth and watered, it cracks wide open. It grows pale and the shell rots. The root slowly reaches down for stability, and the shoot pierces that barren earth. The years of playing at sanctity were the seed, and they have fallen away. The girl who lived as a seed is no longer a seed, but is broken and growing up. I reach for the Sun because I died.

My days do not look now like they did when I was 22, or 24, or 27. It does not mean that I'm starting all over again every time a new child is given or a new crisis strikes. When I am able to sit in a church for an hour in silence, it is water to my soul. When I can get to the Sacrament of Confession, I am complete and whole and healed.

I can no longer brag that I say the entire Rosary every day (the 3-year-old cries), wear a mantilla to Mass (the babies tear it off), fast every day of Lent (angry mommies are a near occaision of sin for children), and have read all of Benedict XVI's encyclicals. Instead, I boast in the strength of Christ, because soon He will be all I have.

It is easy to mourn the "glory days." I still hear old men exclaim, "College! The best years of my life!" They were beautiful years, but not the best. This is better, because it is closer to home. I'm not a puppy any more (more like a juvenile!), and I want to be a big dog.

The gift of understanding.

The last two weeks have been a blur of emotions, a rush to understand, come to terms, and combat "the spirit of the age." The HHS mandate poked its head into our lives one day and changed forever the way faithful Christians and Jews see their position in our country. That takes some getting used to.

Of course, I hope that we do not lose this fight and that we do maintain our freedom to treat pregnancy as nature-gone-right.

It's hard, however, not to look into the future and wonder: Will my children--should they choose to remain Christians--be prohibited from attending medical school? Will the Scientist Dad and I be forced to pay heavy fines for refusing health insurance? Will our priests and bishops find themselves crippled by financial penalties or prison? Will Catholics who own businesses be forced to close them?

Those are the immediate fears that come to mind. But then I think again on those brave men and women who have gone before us--the English martyrs, the Japanese martyrs, the Mexican martyrs, the parents silenced in the Soviet Union, and so many more. Their sufferings have passed and they are blessed "who washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb." All these materials concerns--what if?--surely come to nothing. It is a shrug in the vastness of eternity.

That is not to say these fears are unreal or should be ignored. We must, in fidelity to the Word made flesh, resist the apocalyptic endings. God is found more readily, for weak souls such as me, in a peaceful life free from the temptations of persecution. "Who shall abide the day of His coming?" Grant us peace in our day, is our daily prayer.

What the Christian life gives to us, however, is not a promise that we will escape extreme hardship. Even if our generation is able to "flee the wrath," our surrender to Christ has asked of us the most difficult thing of all. Regardless of the rise and fall of churchmen and politicians, we who are in Christ have received the heavy cross of understanding.

Caryll Houselander writes of this in her phenomenal Reed of God:

"In the world in which we live today, the great understanding given by the Spirit of Wisdom must involve us in a lot of suffering. We shall be obliged to see the wound that sin has inflicted on the people of the world. We shall have X-ray minds; we shall see through the bandages people have laid over wounds that sin has dealt them; we shall see the Christ in others, and that vision will impose an obligation on us for as long as we live, the obligation of love..."

That is a much heavier burden than any fine, loss of healthcare, loss of livelihood. We can see so clearly behind the current threats of persecution and in our family and friends' cold reactions to our distress. We see the pain and darkness of the world outside of the Church. Our hearts are broken and "haunted" by a nostalgia, not for the 1950's or 1200's, but for a homeland we have yet to see. The HHS mandate breaks my heart, not because I'm worried that Bella can't become a doctor, but because of the "tragedy of misunderstanding" between those who have chosen the "middle way" with the world and those who have chosen the "danger of the Divine Lover."

What can I do?

Caryll again:

"The only thing to do is to go on loving, to be patient, to suffer the misunderstanding. Explanations even of what can be explained seldom heal--and there is so much that cannot be explained.

"Even the presence of Christ in us does not do away with our own clumsiness, blindness, stupidity. Indeed, sometimes because of our limitations, His light is a blinding light to us and we become, for a time, more dense than before. We shall be irritable, still make mistakes, and still very likely be unaware of how exasperating we are...

"If we realize we are a little absurd, the love of humility will come more easily."

Whatever the trajectory of our little nation--and it is so little in light even of human history--the Way is still the same. We will plug on either to glorious martyrdom or an insignificant ordinary old age. But we will have no fear, for along with the spirit of understanding we have been given the spirit of strength. The Bride shares the strength of her Lover, because when she received him and his sorrow, she received all his might as well.

Brother's Keeper: In Defense of Caring.

Rarely does Facebook's format serve the interests of human discourse. Facebook is for letting the world know what you ate for breakfast, keeping in touch with old friends, sharing thought-provoking articles (where something resembling discourse can happen), and--primarily--for "saying the good things that men need to hear." Encouragement. Camaraderie.

Once in a while, a question appears in a status that demands more respect than the FB can give. For example, here is a good question, although it was probably intended rhetorically. It appeared in the status of a friend (what does it mean?):

Here it is, paraphrased:

"Why do people care? So what if your next door neighbor takes birth control ...? Who cares if the guy down the street holds the hand of another man when they take their morning stroll? Who cares if some woman has sex with multiple men? How do their choices affect you?"

It's a good question and a common question. I'm going to take a blind shot and assume that it's a common reaction to traditional Judeo-Christian beliefs. Why do I care whether the gay couple down the street just adopted two children? Why do I refuse to call a legal partnership "marriage"? Why can't I just do my thing in my house and leave the rest of the world alone? I assume that I should also refrain from teaching my children to believe what I believe--because then they, too, would care about other people's private lives.

It's a good question--don't dismiss it! The answer you give could destroy or cement your dearest friendships and family relationships.

Given the recent, state-sponsored, all-out attack on the religious freedom of Roman Catholics, Orthodox Jews, and some Protestant groups, my first reaction was, "I don't care. But if I leave y'all alone, will you just the heck leave the Church's schools and hospitals alone?" I know the answer: no. We won't be left alone, because what we believe is offensive and freakish--and we believe that we should care.

But that was a bad answer to an honest question.

Here is the good answer.

First, let's define what we mean by "care." "Care" is not "morbid curiosity." My friend is absolutely right: It is twisted for anyone to investigate and watch (MTV?) what goes on in someone else bedroom. I can mask the ugliest, nosiest prying under the veneer of "Christian charity" (you know, you want to know so you can pray for her!). But just "wanting to know so I can be entertained by my own disgust" is ugly and wrong. And, no, in that sense we should not care.

I also do not care in the sense that I want to impose my convictions on the minds of my fellow citizens. Because, you see, dear friend, the heart of my conviction is a free and total submission to the Triune God. The very idea that "caring" for another human being involves imposition of certain behaviors, or even judgement of the state of another's soul, is nonsensical to the Catholic heart. The Church never "cares" by imposing. In that sense, you are alone. Only you can impose the form of the Cross on your heart.

But there's something equally perverse in saying, "Just leave me alone, I'll leave you alone, and we'll all do whatever the F*** we want as long as we don't hurt anybody (or don't get caught hurting anyone)."

That is because no man is an island.

I will always "care" in the sense that I will forever propose to every man I meet that vision of a life lived in conformity to the Cross and in hope of the resurrection. That is the sense of caring that the Church demands of her children:

"No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were... any man's death diminishes me." ~John Donne

Human beings are weak, dependent creatures. We need to care and be cared for by other human beings. Every human act--hidden or plain--affects the happiness of every other human being. (In fact, is that not why the idea that someone is "imposing" her morality on her neighbor so repelling? We know that to judge someone else is not to care, but to kill.)

Ignoring each other, not caring, this is inhuman.

We hear in Schindler's List that, "If you save one man, you save the whole world (the original is in the much more poetic Talmud)."

A human being should care what his neighbor does, because his neighbor is as himself. I am man. She is man. He is man. The whole of what is good and worthy and beautiful lives or dies in the life of a single human being.

Now, I know very well that this view carries no resonance with most of the world I live in. If there is no heaven, if God has no mercy, if there is no hope of happiness in this world, if Christ did not come... then no one should care. In fact, no one will care about the woman down the street who takes birth control and sells Marie Osmond. No one will care to ask her over for lunch. No one will care to bring her a meal when she's sick. No one cares after she dies (except for the annoying sense of grief that afflicts the living--the dead don't care, anyway).

But if God did make us, he made us to be together. In this month's Touchstone, Anthony Esolen provides a much more profound defense of caring. Read the whole thing, but here's the heart:

'In other words, the good of a man is the good of man, and the good of man is the good of a man;and both find their fulfillment in God. This is not an equation to be solved, but a mystery of love to be lived. The man who understands it does not say, “My good is in its essence inferior to the good of a million others taken together,” nor, “My good is my own, and I will pursue it, and let the other millions pursue theirs.” Human society is a whole, says Maritain, made up of wholes, and the wholes are persons, meant for the joy of love. That means that we can never purchase our good at the price of another person; his good is mine.

But we may, for the good of others, engage in heroic acts of love: “And when the person sacrifices to the common good of the city that which is dearest to it, suffers torture and gives its life for the city, in these very acts because it wills what is good and acts in accordance with justice, it still loves its own soul, in accordance with the order of charity, more than the city and the common good of the city,” just as the hermit, who, “seeming to forget the city,” contemplates beauty and truth, and in so doing, “still serves the common good of the city and in an eminent fashion.”

How does my neighbor's sexual behavior affect my life, today, right now? I don't suppose "breaking my heart" counts. The truth is, I don't think we can claim to know how any one, isolated human act affects the lives of human beings--now, in the past, or in the future. We're too small.

But we can know THAT every action affects every human being who ever existed or will exist. I know that what Margaret Sanger--even though she never imagined that I, Erika, would exist--believed 100 years ago changed forever the world in which I live every day. I know what St. Peter did on Good Friday before dawn changed forever how I can hope in mercy--even though he lived worlds and ages away. I know that what the Russian Tsar did to a little village in Lithuania in 1904 frightened my grandparents into leaving, and that means that I exist (thank you, Russian Tsar?). I know that because my parents cared about what I chose to do with my body, I became a woman who could marry Todd and have three beautiful girls. We cannot know that immense good, or evil, our choices bring to other human beings.

But we know with certainty: No man in an island.

Delighting and grieving.

"The Lord delights in those who revere him

In those who wait for his love." ~Psalm 147:11

The days have been short and the nights long. The waiting for Christmas was interrupted this year: my Uncle Billy died suddenly last Thursday night. The family is so close, and that makes it both easier and harder all at once.

We've all been feeling as though it will be "always winter and never Christmas."

This morning, the Office was perfect. The perfect pattern of prayer.

Psalm 143--the song of those in distress: "Lord, listen to my prayer..."

Isaiah 66-- the quieting of the crying child: "Oh, that you may suck fully of the milk of her comfort!"

Psalm 147--"He binds up all their wounds..."

And then 147 ends with that oddity: "The Lord delights in those who revere him

In those who wait for his love."

Grief and fatigue leave me--from a human perspective--anything but delightful. If death is the end of all things, there is no more delight in a person. Memories may bring a smile or some comfort, but only with the thought that "things will never be the same."

But the Office, after allowing us to rail at God and weep, after promising to quiet us like a mother quiets her screaming infant, tells us that "the Lord delights in those who revere him."

One of the great blessings of the funeral home was that its men walk the mourners through every step. They let you grieve, but also help you move through the necessary motions. They tell you what to do so that you can survive those first few days.

In a similar way, that last Psalm tells the grieving soul what it must do: First, praise the Lord, for he is good. His wisdom can never be measured. Consider his creation. The mountains are covered in clouds, the ravens cry to him for their bread.

And then, sad soul, know this: The Lord delights in you.

The soul must know--must contemplate--this. She, who praises God in her grief, is a joy. God's infinite love is entirely directed toward her, and her praise opens her sad heart to receive this knowledge. "The Lord delights in those who revere him." Only those who revere him can know this.

So, once again, the Divine Office walks us through our days. We know it will not always be winter. We know Christmas will come, and that the Final Day will come, as well. Then we will see clearly, as my uncle sees now, the face of God who delights in us.

for my uncle, who died suddenly one night.

“These souls cannot think,‘I am here, and justly so because of my sins,’
or
‘I wish I had never committed such sins
for now I would be in paradise,’
or
‘That person there is leaving before me,’
or
‘I will leave before that other one.’

They cannot remember the good and evil in their past nor that of others.

Such is their joy in God’s will, in His pleasure that they have no concern for themselves but dwell only on their joy in God’s will,
in having Him do what He will.

They see only the goodness of God,
His mercy toward men.
Should they be aware of other good and evil theirs would not be perfect charity.

They do not see that their suffering is due to their sins for that awareness would be a want of perfection
and in purgatory souls cannot sin.

Only once do the souls understand
the reason for their purgatory:
the moment in which they leave this life.
After that moment, that knowledge disappears.

Immersed in charity, incapable of deviating from it,
They can only will or desire pure love.
There is no joy save that in paradise
to be compared with the joy of the souls in purgatory.

This joy increases day by day."

~St. Catherine of Genoa, Treatise on Purgatory.

Heart set free: John Cassian gets real.

A trusted friend gave me John Cassian for the Advent season. It's required reading, and I must admit I was a little frightened. Cassian is one the earliest (c. 365-435, A.D.) writers on the monastic life. He lived out in deserts in Egypt, caves in Provence, and swamps around Marseilles. He wrote for monks. I am anything but a monk, and the times I've tried to be monkish have usually ended in frustration.

(See photo. Don't I wish.)

But this was required reading, so in a spirit of obedience in I go. And here is section 6 of his first conference:

"...[A mind which lacks an abiding sense of direction veers hither and yon by the hour, and by the minute is a prey to outside influences and is endlessly the prisoner of whatever strikes it first.]"

Well, that doesn't sound like it's only for monks. I'm a little less apprehensive. In fact, now I'm desperately longing to find out a remedy for this "hither and yon" heart. It's particularly poignant this Advent season: the world is a mass of sensations, feelings, activities--all striking the soul again and again. The busy-ness is overwhelming--spiritually, physically, and emotionally--and the endless entertainments do not set us free, but take us prisoner.

We are slaves to our entertainments, addictions, preferences. John Cassian, I'm right there. Tell me more:

"This is why we see many who, having given up the greatest wealth not only in gold and silver but also in splendid estates, nevertheless become very upset over a knife, a scraper, a needle, or a pan."

Ha! That's the hassled housewife he's describing! I've given up doctorates, careers, substantial incomes, ridiculous little worldly pleasures to be a Good Christian. And I'm still upset by... pans.

"If they had looked unwaveringly to the purity of their hearts they would never have become involved with such trifles and they would have rejected these just as they did great and valuable possessions. There are some who guard a book so jealously that they can barely endure to have someone else read it or touch it."

Ouch. Oh, stop it, John. That hurt the book-nerd in me.

"They have given away all their wealth for Christ and yet they still hold on to their old heart-longings for things that do not matter, things for whose sake they grow angry."

This is such a good reminder in these days: Books and pans Do. Not. Matter. Becoming angry, or driving yourself to anger, over these little things is a sure sign that something is misplaced. Our hearts are not pure, they have become slaves to what is outside because they have lost sight of what is inside--the life of God himself.

Then, in section seven, he goes on:

"This is why we take on loneliness, fasting, vigils, work, nakedness. For this we must practice the reading of the Scripture... we do so to trap and to hold our hearts free of the harm of every dangerous passion and in order to rise step by step to the high point of love."

"To trap and to hold our hearts free"--the glorious paradox of the divine life in human flesh. We can only be freed from our books and pots and pans if our hearts are captured for something else. The loneliness, fasts, and vigils or the housewife are not the same as those of a monk. But they can serve the same purpose: "to rise step by step to the high point of love."

And what mother (or father) who has spent those long nights in vigil with the newborn can say that she still cares as much for her books and her clothes as she did before the child was born?

Who can say that life together in marriage does not offer countless opportunities to be freed from our attachment to things that do not matter in order to preserve the love that does matter?

John Cassian, I believe we are going to be the best of friends.

(See photo. Is this what your 3 AM looks like?)

Miriam and a postcard from the volcano.

Yesterday, the Scientist Dad stayed home from the university so that I could go meet with a priest for spiritual direction and Confession. It was blessed.

This afternoon, as I sliced red peppers and whisked together the curry, 3-year-old Bella queried:

"Miwiam, why dost (she really says dost) Mummy have to go to Kerfeshun?"

The Mother Superior responded, "Well, Belly, sometimes Mommy is a Bad Catholic. So, she has to go and tell the priest, who is really Jesus just for a minute, that she was a Bad Catholic. Then she is a Good Catholic again, until she does something else bad. Then, if she wants to be a Good Catholics again, she has to go back and tell Father."

Yes. That just about sums it up. It's simple. Baptism: We are all good Catholics. We get lazy, we drift, we fall asleep on the watch, we sin. Bad Catholics. The fix is simple: if we want to be good again, we just tell father.

I loved the "if," which reminds me:

I'm finishing Lucy Beckett's A Postcard from the Volcano, a fabulous crash course in 20th-century history, the Western canon, and... well, all of Western philosophy. (I have raved about her In the Light of Christ, a more formal introduction to the canon.) Not to give it away, but one of the main characters, originally a convert to Catholicism, ends up spending three years without the sacraments. He attends Mass, sitting in the back row, but never reconciles with the Church. In effect, a Bad Catholic.

Max's dearest friend, Adam, questions him: Why has he stayed away so long? His affair had ended, his 18 months of the lusts of the world had ended, tragically in an abortion. Why had he not confessed, been absolved, and returned home? Max's answer is poignant.

During his time of "real life," in the world of sex, drugs, and jazz (no rock 'n' roll in pre-War Germany), he had found himself feeling alive, feeling unhappy, but electric. His lover would tell him, "You're not really a Prussian bureaucrat who only likes Brahms. You just look like one, talk like one, work like one. Take it all off with your clothes." And he did. He even felt relief when she had the abortion--although he also immediately left her--just because he wouldn't be tied down to her forever.

He tells Adam he is uncertain now--after it all--of who he is, what he believes, even of God's interest in him. Confession seems too certain, Mass only a fragment of his self. How can he confess a sin he enjoyed, a sin that he felt relief at?

Adam listens--and this is good--but then brings Max back to the simplicity: "Now listen to me. Eros is the only sickness for which we volunteer. You are anwerable for what happened between you and Eva, in a way that she's not, or not yet--no one knows... Your reaction to the abortion shows that you know [there was hardly any connexion between you]. It also shows that you understand the self-indulgence, the distance rom God, of the whole thing. You understood this all along. The fact that Eva didn't understand helped you to hide from the fact that you did."

Adam continues, "What I would like you to do is this. Tomorrow is Sunday. The village Mass is at nine. Come with me half an hour early and make your confession to Father Stanislaw. He's a good man--not that it matters what he's like. Tell him the simple facts. Be given absolution. be given Communion. Pray for your child. Pray for Eva. And for me."

And that is what they do. Then Max takes the train back to Breslau and realizes that he can once again play Bach. "Adam had restored him to a place where the truth was steady."

That's what Confession does. The sloth of sin and the the grime of accumulated falls make the world spin. Reality is unsteady. Was it really so bad? Did I even mess up? Does God really care?

The only clarification is in absolution. When you want to be a Good Catholic again, after you fight through all that grime and grasp the rock, the light breaks through.

I can play Bach again.

Miriam has the instinct, if her vocabulary is a little reminiscent of the 1950's CCD teacher. Mommy was, for a little while, a Good Catholic again. And I found that the truth was steady.

Come to think of it, I think Miriam's ready for her own First Confession. Next month.

Image source.

Abstinence and marriage, Part II: Bueno!

I've read some exquisitely thoughtful and transparent comments from yesterday's post, Abstinence and marriage: ¿Que pasa? The only worthy response would be to continue with a few more thoughts.

Jen wrote that she finds an inherent difference between priestly (or monastic) celibacy and periodic (or permanent) abstinence in marriage. I think she's right on this: Celibates (priests and religious) have freely vowed not only to live a life without sexual intercourse but also detached from the particular, one-on-one friendship that the marriage vows demand. Very few men and women get married expecting years and years of sexual abstinence. One anonymous commentator wrote that "the single person and the religious are both called to live chastity for many years. What makes it possible for them is fidelity to the spiritual life and the life of prayer. What is four weeks in comparison?

My response would be that four weeks living in the same, close quarters after years of a shared bed, shared sleeplessness, shared affection, and shared tears can make the shift from "sexual active married couple" to "sexless married couple" very different from life in a cell or large, lonely rectory. I'm not denigrating either sacrifice, I just think it might seem callous to compare (much like comparing the struggle of an infertile couple to my struggle).

The same anonymous commentator makes, however, an excellent point about the nature of human life: The great equalizer for all vocations and states of life is the call to sacrificial love. It's a difficult teaching, but, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life."

Anonymous: "My recommendations to you aren't rocket science— daily Mass, weekly confession, weekly adoration, weekly fasting. Fasting, in particular is key to taming one's desire to engage in the marital act. I know that this sacrifice isn't easy— but it's part of what the marital vocation calls on you to do— but in a marriage— every step of the way is paved by sacrifice..."

April puts a positive slant on it: "God is making us into saints and THAT is beautiful. That is life-giving." She's put her finger on a truth we hold dear: All suffering can give life. It is all able to bear fruit.

I was listening to Abbot Tryphon this afternoon. He said, "When we are free, there are no battles. Life is a constant battle with the material world." As we battle in our desire to have it all--sex, health, avoid pregnancy, achieve pregnancy, Brownie Sundaes, a slim figure, plenty of sleep, completion of all projects--we inevitably feel the pull of the "flesh" (as in, the things that are transitory) to compromise. "If I just used a Pill, I could have sex and avoid pregnancy." "If I just made myself throw it all back up, I could eat Brownie Sundaes and be slim!" The killer argument comes from the psychologist: "You will go crazy if you don't have it all!"

But new life is not born of these compromises. It is born of becoming free of the desire to compromise. I think anonymous #2 gives good suggestions for training our souls and bodies to become free: fasting, prayer, the sacraments. It is only if we live in the very life of Christ himself that we can be free as he is free.

The Abbot also said that--as he was feeling miserable one day in all his accumulated wealth--he realized suddenly that this life was given him only as a time to prepare for eternity. The married life is only a sign of that real life: eternal consummation of our union with God. It is a means, not an end, to bring us to our true end.

In a sacramental and faithful marriage, abstinence is going to happen. For various reasons--voluntarily or involuntarily--we cannot always come together physically. Another friend pointed out to me the many examples of saints and blesseds who have chosen abstinence within their marriages either permanently or for a short period of time. We can join secular culture and psychoanalyze these men and women to pieces, or blame the Church for bashing sex in honoring them, or we can assume the best: They were seeking freedom, total freedom for the things of God. Their joy and final victory doesn't denigrate large families or sexually active marriages: It uplifts "those who are bowed down" under a battle they did not originally anticipate.

I am grateful for your company and witness.

Image Source: Blessed Luigi Beltrame Quattrocchi and Blessed Maria Corsini

Abstinence and marriage: Que pasa?

A friend and I were ruminating under the hurricane about the meaning and role of sexual abstinence in marriage. She is a pre-Cana NFP coach and noted that, "We just don't seem to be preparing couples for the reality of abstinence: It's going to happen." We also noted frustrations with the tendency to present NFP as the Catholic birth-control (it's not!): Safe! Effective! Simple! Morally Upright!

Since the good Lord has seen fit to grant unto me some serious reasons for postponing pregnancy right now (oh, that's a whole 'nother discussion), I've been discovering the realities of prolonged periods of abstinence and what they mean for our particular marriage. The old NFP courses I took long ago (nine years!) warned, "Couples may need to abstain from the conjugal embrace for up to two weeks in order to guarantee avoidance of pregnancy."

Try three or four weeks. This is sacrificial.

And that's three or four weeks of feeling deep sadness (we would love more children--they're so different and irreplaceable); guilt ("Are you having any more?" "Look at the Martins! They have seven! What a good, Catholic family!"); and frustration. We sometimes feel fruitless, when our deepest convictions tell us that marriage is intended by God to be fruitful.

But I do not believe that, simply because pregnancy is not currently an option (again, a whole 'nother subject, so just trust me on this one), we have to cease being fertile or sexual or, in the combination of the two, fruitful.

The question is, just... how?

What new ways of bearing new life are there for us? What does this time of abstinence mean for us? How will it build up our life together? Because, you know, the trendy answer is, "Sexless marriage!? You're dooommmmmmed!"

No, we are not. Fidelity means life.

I've only just started mulling this over. The first fruit of abstinence was obvious: Sacrifice! Offer it up for the world! Well, that only goes so far. Anyone who has suffered chronic pain knows that sometimes "Offer it up, and the holy souls will get to heaven" is no justification and little comfort.

Look! Joseph is offering it up for holy souls while beating a fig tree to ward off temptation!

Please leave comments here, because there are more women out there who have lived this vocation for much longer than I. I'm looking for opportunities and joys that come from a life of abstinence together: What are the positive ways in which abstinence affects your marriage, your children, your friends, and the Church? What could we tell young couples who are about to set out on a difficult life, sacramental marriage, to encourage them that this is a beautiful and holy life?

I think of another kind of difficult life: the religious vocation.

The most convincing argument for entering an order and taking on the vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience is surely the joy of those already living it: men and women have been very happy, have found the strength to sacrifice everything the world holds in value, and have--through their vows--been gentled and molded into the image of Christ. In spite of all the very wicked priests and religious, the fact remains that many have become very good through this way of life. The religious life, therefore, bears great fruit in spite of the fact that it is an odd way to flourish as a human being. It is not un-natural, but it is surely supra-natural.

I think the same thing might be said of a marriage that is periodically sexless for long periods of time: the only way I will ever convince myself or anyone else that this is a holy and happy life is if I myself become holy and happy through fidelity to my vows, both my marriage vows and my baptismal vows.

Check back in when I've completed my course and run my race. I have great hope that you will be convinced, by the grace of the Father. Ora pro nobis. But also, please add your encouragement:

What are the fruits and peculiar marks you have seen in marriage during the hard times?

Favorite NFP and posts:

Yes! Every sperm is sacred.

Do I want more kids?

Is 'planned' a dirty word?

Strength in Darkness

The Catholic Company has brought me Strength in Darkness: Wisdom from John of the Cross. How appropriate. The editor's opening line is: "Have you ever had that abiding sense that you just can't get through something?" Why, yes! Yes, I have!

What follows are simply excerpts from the writings of John of the Cross, the great Carmelite reformer, a doctor of the Church, and friend of Teresa of Avila (note: friendship with a saint sure helps in becoming a saint yourself).

As someone who has struggled with depression recently, however, I would offer a word of caution. John may not be the man to read at the moment when that "abiding sense" of despair is strongest. Ask your confessor or a trusted friend first, because John's Dark Night can seem so challenging and so full of confidence that we less hardy souls may read him, shrug our shoulders, and abandon his way.

John encourages us that in darkness, we have received an invitation to go deeper and to go through whatever it is we are facing. The dark night is the only preparation for total union with God: "Furthermore, in this union for which the dark night is a preparation, the soul in its communion with God must be endowed and filled with a certain glorious splendor embodying innumerable delights. These delights surpass all the abundance the soul can possess naturally, for nature, so weak and impure, cannot receive these delights, as Isaiah says, 'Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered any human heart what he has prepared (Is 64:4).' As a result the soul must first be set in emptiness and poverty of spirit and purged of every natural support, consolation, and apprehension, earthly and heavenly. Thus empty, it is truly poor in spirit and stripped of the old self, and thereby able to live that new and blessed life which is the state of union with God, attainable by means of this night."

This, as the apostles said, is a difficult teaching. Who can bear it?

For the soul struggling with depression or intense suffering, John can be either the dearest friend or that well-meaning, but obtuse, well-wisher who stops you after Mass and says, "I've heard you're having a tough time. Don't worry, God sent you this for a reason."

I would save John of the Cross for a dark night that has begun to fade into morning: Once the worst has lifted (even if only for a moment), once you have a friend to read him along with you, then John's teaching has no compare. He can convince with the language of the heart: "In the first place it should be known that if anyone is seeking God, the Beloved is seeking that person much more...."

Once your heart is ready to accept this, then John of the Cross becomes the great spiritual director. He is able to prepare you for future suffering and give you hope that the dark nights you have known were not suffered in vain.

This review was written as part of the Catholic book reviewer program from The Catholic Company, and the reviewer received a free copy of the text in exchange for her opinion. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information on Strength in Darkness. They also have great resources on the new translation of the Roman Missal!

Save me, Lord.

Today I remember, with the whole western lung of the Church, one of my Top 5 Gals: St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein): She wrote against Heidegger's claim that human life is an anxiety-ridden hurdling toward death. He made the case that the only "rational human attitude" is "a passionate ... consciously resolute and anxiety-stricken freedom toward death."

To which she replied: "By no means. The undeniable fact that my being is limited in its transience from moment to moment and thus exposed to the possibility of nothingness is counterbalanced by the equally undeniable fact that despite this transience, I a, that from moment to moment I am sustained in my being, and that in my fleeting being I share in [eternal] being. In the knowledge that being holds me, I rest securely. This security, however, is not the self-assurance of one who under her own power stands on firm ground, but rather the sweet and blissful security of a child that is lifted up and carried by a strong arm. And, objectively speaking, this kind of security is not less rational. For if a child were living in the constant fear that its mother might let it fall, we should hardly call this a rational attitude."

This reminds me (finally!) of that post I meant to write, based on a homily I heard this past weekend. That day was a darker day: I sat in a soaring, neo-Gothic church in old New Haven, cradling a sweet, sleepy Bella on my lap, lamenting my sins, nursing my grudges, and fighting back the latest anxiety attack and bout of depression. Rain fell gently outside, but my heart felt more like a hurricane. It seemed that all the water I'd been treading was covering my head again.

Then the priest climbed the high steps to read us the story of St. Peter's own walk on the storming waters of the Sea of Galilee. He saw Jesus walking toward the boat in which he and the other apostles were fighting the wind and waves. In a fit of love, zeal, and passion, he cried: "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water!"

"Come."

Peter stepped with bravado out of that little boat, the brave saint among the cowering and sinful band of brothers. In that moment, surely he felt so confident and unafraid.

But then, life happened.

The winds and the rain, the waves--the storm overwhelmed him. He could not go on. He knew he was going to die, and he sank. "Lord, save me!" Jesus said, "O you of little faith, why did you doubt?" And he helped the sinking leader of the Church back into that beleaguered little boat.

This is the parable of every life: we begin with a fervent promise, our Jesus Prayer, "Lord, whatever you want me to do, I will do it!"

"Lord, I would gladly give my life for you!" (Peter himself says this later, too, before he falls so grievously on Good Friday.)

I remember those moments: the heady days of intense silent prayer, daily Adoration, daily Mass, the thrilling discovery of John Paul II's theology, the life-long commitments made in the madness of youth. And there was nothing insincere about them. We--all of us--meant it: we converted, we we threw out our birth control, we kept our vows, we quit that high-paying career path, we decided to tithe more than we could "afford," we humbled ourselves and begged forgiveness from those we hurt; we swallowed all insults and responded in love. And it was good, because we were following the very words of God himself.

What we did not realize in those first flushes of sanctity--and what no one could have prepared us for--was that, when we follow Christ, death is not a distant possibility. It is a certainty.

(Thank you, dear Dominican priest!)

When we did realize that our brave choice was costing us our lives, we faltered. Life happened. We suffered for those choices. Our humility was repaid with more insults. Our openness to life was repaid with heartbreak at the death of our children. Our fidelity was repaid with infidelity. Our sacrifice was mocked. We sank and cried for help.

Life did not feel like sanctity anymore. It felt like failure. Surely, we thought, we deserved condemnation. O me of little faith.

Todd asked me, "When you read that story, do you think Jesus was angry with Peter?"

No. I have never thought that. It sounds more like a parent's gentle chiding, "Why didn't you trust me? Here I am." And Peter accepted that reassurance. He took Christ's hand and got back in the boat.

But, the father reminded us, we don't stay in the boat anymore than we stay with the initial feeling of zeal. We get out of that boat again and again. We sink over and over again. And over and over, we hear that gentle reproach, "Why did you fear? I am with you."

I would step out into the storm a million times to hear that voice every day. I know that voice: I have heard it in the darkest moments, at the point where I just want it all to end. Why does he visit us only in those moments? No, he is always there--after all, he was the one who called us to walk on water (impossible) in the first place. He watched our first, confident steps; he saw our sinking.

It was only when I sank that I wanted to hear him again, that I knew my limitless need. And his eternal mercy.

So, like Edith Stein, I want to respond to all the false bravado of our age. It is not in ridding ourselves of anxiety by our own firm resoluteness. It is in being held, like a child, that we can bear the transience of life, the endless changes, the suffering.