|
|
Episode 1: Twenty-four hours to Go July, 2003 I’m sitting in a restaurant with a friend when the song comes on. “Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated…. Just get me to the airport, put me on a plane, hurry, hurry, hurry, before I go insane.” I laugh. That’s kind of how I feel. Normally I don’t base my personal or theological insights on the Ramones, but today their lyrics seem apt. I’m ready to go, but I’m scared, too. I’m leaving a very comfortable and happy life and stepping into the unknown. I’ve left a job I loved and excelled at to serve a God I can see only with the eyes of faith. I’m walking away from the Atlanta Christian community that nourishes me to enter a new family, in a new city, with different customs and food and habits and accents and personalities. If I think too much about it, I feel paralyzed. Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I go insane! Yet even in these last, impatient, anxious moments, I’m filled with confidence in God. Many times I have uttered the words, “God, you got me into this, so it’s up to you to get me through!” And He always manages to take my little, sometimes grudging “yes” and turn it into something larger and more beautiful than I am capable of. I trust He will do the same with my step of faith into the convent. This summer has been a time of great consolation and desolation. My highs have been very high but my lows quite low. A few weeks ago, I was praying after receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation (that’s confession for all you non-RC’s), and feeling very discouraged. Our conversation went something like this: Joy (whining): “God, I blew it again. I’m sorry. I want to be a nun but I keep falling down in sin! What’s up with that? I guess I’m just not worthy.”
God (wry): “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we aren’t relying on your strength, hmmm?”
Joy: “Oh. Right. I forgot. You’re God, I’m not.”
God: “So, let’s summarize. You’re a sinner, flawed and imperfect. Is this a new thing? No. So why are you indulging in despair? Welcome to being human. Get a little crazy and try trusting me.” How good is God that He even makes falling full of grace! I have to grin and shake my head at my own self-important hand wringing. Today I am leaving Atlanta and will be in Miami on Friday. I’m excited and haven’t slept much lately. Last night I snoozed about three hours. Unfortunately, my “what-if” monster is wide awake. Imagine, if you will, the standard miniature devil and angel perched on my shoulders. The wee demon (uncreatively named Whatif) has a facial tic and is chewing nervously on the end of his tail, muttering to himself. “What if you don’t like them? What if they don’t like you? What if you can’t learn Spanish? What if they figure out you’re not perfect? What if you’re throwing your life away on a myth? What if you left the only career you’re good at? What if you can’t do this?” Ugh. I hate this guy. Learning to thwart Whatif will be a real spiritual breakthrough for me. I’m looking forward to flicking him off my shoulder for good. In the meantime, I open up my memories, the story of my life, the Gospel according to Joy, and point to a few high points. “Well, I know I’m not serving a myth, because remember these miracles? And besides, SO WHAT? If the worst case scenario is figuring out that I’m too dense to learn another language and I’m not cut out to be a nun, I’m still in pretty good shape.” I nail him between the eyes with the zinger God gave me earlier. “And one more thing. You’re right, I can’t do this. But God can, and my insufficiency is His problem, not mine. Go bug Him.” With that, Whatif blinks, and lacking a retort, grumbles off. I’m ready to go, ready to try the craziest, most unreasonable thing I’ve done in my crazy, unreasonable life. Catch me, Lord, here I come. Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email. Episode 2: The Main Attraction August, 2003 It has been almost two weeks since I boarded a plane bound for Miami and a new way of life. The twelve days since then have been full of goodness, full of graces, and I scramble to commit all of them to memory, to somehow fix them, press them like flowers, gather them like manna, savoring while saving them. I spent only two nights in Miami, long enough to unpack my things and find the chapel and coffeemaker, before flying to Philadelphia. I’ve been staying at our retreat house here in Haverford and this is my first “report from the front” taken from my experiences here. The retreat house was a lively place over the weekend. The ACJ’s[1] just finished “Province Renewal Days,” which are a time for all the Sisters to come together, renew their vows, learn about each other’s ministries, share memories, and fuel themselves for another year of prayer and service. On Friday, just in time for the Province Renewal, I ended a wonderful retreat of nearly four days of silence, reflection, and prayer. I could write pages about the fruit that my quality time with God yielded, but I’ll restrain myself and simply state that I found a peace “that passes understanding.” As much as I found joy in chatting again with Sisters I’d not seen for awhile, I was somewhat reluctant to return from this vacation with Jesus. It was a sacred time. From silence and intense private time with God, I was plunged into public life and a two-day workshop on the vows. It’s unusual for someone like me, a pre-postulant with no vows, to have the opportunity to learn about the theology and practice of celibacy, poverty, and obedience. Even as the untried newbie in a room of “pros”, I felt accepted and included, which is testimony to the spirit of this congregation. By the end of Saturday, however, I was tired and had a pounding headache. Sleep had eluded me the night before, so my body, not just my mind, was fighting exhaustion. I ambled into the small office / stockroom where I knew a bottle of Advil awaited. Sister Assumption was working a jigsaw puzzle there and I stopped to say hello. She was the oldest Sister present this weekend, at a spry 89 years old. We’d not yet spoken except for the occasional polite greeting, and I thought it would be nice to get to know her better. I discovered in our conversation that she is a planter, a person who has the gift of beginning a project, a convent, a foundation, and coaxing it into life. Sr. Assumption also seems to me to have the gift of moving on gracefully. She can go into a new place, entrusted with new seeds, where she turns over soil again. She knows that God provides others to reap the harvest and care for the vineyard she leaves behind, whether it’s a school, community, or retreat ministry. At one point in our conversation we compared notes on our shared hobby of jigsaw puzzles. I divulged my method, which is to assemble the entire edge and work my way in. Sr. Assumption was appalled. “No, no, you cannot do it like that,” she exclaimed. “You are restrained, boxed in! No, you must begin from the most important element of the picture. What is the attraction? In this puzzle, it is the birds.” She gestured to the ivory breasts of the trio of songbirds taking shape on the table in front of her. “When you start from the most important thing and work your way out, you are not constrained. You have infinity!” She teased me. “My way is more theologically correct, you know.” I had to laugh. Later, I reflected on her words. When I began considering religious life, I could see it only from the outside in. The edges of that life, the distinct separateness from ordinary Christianity, were what grabbed my attention. Issues like whether or not a given order wore the habit or not, and whether their convent had cable TV, and where Sisters stood on the political spectrum, became important to me. I assembled my view of the consecrated life according to these externals, to what I could see and hear. But as I spent more time with nuns in general, and with the Handmaids in particular, I began to realize that a life consecrated to Jesus must be understood and lived from the inside out. What, as Sr. Assumption asked, is the attraction? For me, and for my congregation, it is the immoderate self-gift of Jesus in the Eucharist[2]. From this center, I am gradually adding to my understanding of the consecrated life. Does this life have edges that set it apart? Most certainly. Yet these boundaries, the vows of celibacy, poverty, and obedience, are not the purpose, the ends, the meaning of consecration. They are, rather, the means by which I am (or I should say, being not yet vowed, “I will be”,) able to focus deeply on that which attracts. Jesus. The day after my conversation with Sr. Assumption, I was received into the postulancy of the Handmaids. This means that I will spend the next year questioning, being an “asker”, a postulant. Asking God what His desires for my life are. Asking my community how they meet Jesus, how they pray, how they work. Asking to participate in the life of the Handmaids. If, at the end of this year, I find that my soul continues to resonate deeply with the charism of the Handmaids, I will ask one thing more: to be permitted to learn and grow with the Handmaids, as a Handmaid novice. The community will also be in prayer, seeking God’s wisdom and discerning God’s will, and it will be my Sisters who answer in God’s name. I enter this time with great hope. I am among friends, after all. We are women who are drawn to the same Person, the same Attraction. As with any fan club, those who don’t share our passion look on us with a blend of confusion and amusement. Most people see just the edges of this puzzling life. Yet we are intensely focused on the Main Attraction. [1] ACJ = Ancillae Cordis Jesu. That’s “Handmaids of the (Sacred) Heart of Jesus” in Latin and is the name of our congregation. Sisters sign their name “Sister So-and-So, acj”. [2] The Catholic faith holds that the Eucharist (communion bread and wine) become, at consecration during Mass, the Body and Blood of the Lord. Not bread and wine, but Jesus’ very Self. This is pretty amazing because it means Jesus gives Himself completely to everyone who comes to communion… whether they recognize Him or not; whether they treat Him with love, indifference, or even hostility.
Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email. August, 2003 The notes drift past my ear, and in their shyness they attract my attention. A flutist is playing “Amazing Grace”. I kneel on the pavement in this sacred place and aim my camera upward. Stargazer lilies are my favorite flowers and there is a cluster of them propped against the viewing fence. I snap a photo, attempting to capture the juxtaposition of delicate flowers against the reinforced steel barrier. The World Financial Center is part of the backdrop as well, diminished, while the fragile blossoms dominate the scene. In my viewfinder, the building seems to deliberately recede in order to give the gravesite a respectful distance. It is difficult to grasp that thousands of people died here in just a few hours, and that two years ago the streets were flooded with refugees fleeing the dust and rubble. It is August 11, one month shy of the anniversary of the destruction of the World Trade Center, and I am at Ground Zero. It is the Monday following my entrance into the postulancy when I find myself on a sightseeing trip to New York City. I have never been to New York before, so I jump at the opportunity to go along with Sr. Carmen, a guest from Rome, Sr. Florentina, who normally resides in Atlanta, and our friend and tour guide, Maruja. In deference to Sr. Carmen, who does not speak English, the language of the day is Spanish. I readily agree, hungry to hear and practice Spanish with friends. Amazingly enough, I am able to chat with Sr. Carmen with relative comprehension. She is sensitive to my struggle to understand and uses short words, speaks slowly, and is always willing to repeat herself. Sr. Florentina and Maruja speak English but I try to use Spanish with them as well. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way I have become much more comfortable with not being able to understand what is being said around me. I imagine some of it stems from my time in Romania, when I was frequently in situations where I could comprehend only small fragments of a conversation. However, I would like to believe that there is a more spiritual reason. At many times in my discernment, I had no idea how God was working or where He was leading me. Yet everything always worked out for my good and God’s glory. So I hope that I have become less of a control freak, having learned firsthand that I need not understand everything. At any rate, my day of Spanish immersion with three friends feels very comfortable. I’d say I understand about half of the conversation, but that doesn’t bother me or make me feel left out. I am not a part of every exchange, but it doesn’t matter. There is more to communication than words. I digress. I’m in New York with my friends, on a hot day that gives my nose and cheeks a Santa-esque sunburn. We have a good time at Ellis Island and Liberty Island, stop to see Ground Zero and Wall Street, make time to pray at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, amble through Rockefeller Center, and drive by the United Nations, Central Park, the Ed Sullivan Theatre, and more. New York is so much a part of the vicarious experience of being American that it all seems somehow familiar. I recognize landmarks and neighborhoods, feeling somehow like a displaced native returning home instead of like a tourist seeing everything for the first time. Normally I am fairly unmoved by landmarks. I find, in my travels, that authentic experiences of the people of a land mean more to me than visiting the “sights”. I would, for example, prefer to take tea and pray with our Handmaids in London, and find out about the needs of the city and the aims of the convent school, rather than make progress in some checklist of famous castles. When I do have significant experiences related to a place, it’s usually because of the people with me instead of the appeal of the landmark itself. Museums are nice, and memorials can be touching, but they are frozen memories of life and not life itself. The Statue of Liberty, however, I find particularly meaningful, especially when taken in conjunction with Ellis Island and the history of immigration in this country. Perhaps the stirrings in my heart are because someone I love, a family member, is struggling with his visa status. Or maybe I feel touched because my sphere of concern has grown to include Romanian friends who aren’t permitted to visit the United States and a special child in El Salvador who needs medical attention only available here. When I first see Lady Liberty, from the highway, I gasp. Here is the image of what is great about my country… our welcoming spirit. Contrasting Lady Liberty with the current social and political attitudes toward immigration makes me want to weep. She is vulnerable, lifting high her lamp to illuminate the entryway into the country. She holds no weapon; she offers no resistance to strangers. I consider the Patriot Act, the nationalist tenor of current political discourse, the prisoners held by the US in Guantanamo Bay. I note with chagrin the name of our ferry: “Miss Liberty.” Yes, I do. I miss liberty. I miss the freedom to dissent without being branded anti-American. I miss the liberty to breeze through airports. What is the right balance of protection and openness? I don’t know. Even though I bemoan some US policy, I know that this country is the promised land for many. We, in our freedom, imperfect as it may be, and in our abundance, unbalanced as it may be, are so blessed. Why me? Why should I have healthy food, and clean water, and educational opportunities, and access to doctors, while my neighbors live in misery? Even my ability to enter religious life is a luxury. To think that I have the leisure time to pray, think, and seek direction about the path my life should take! For most of the world, roles are handed out, not discerned. How little I value choice! Chicken or beef, black shoes or brown, marriage or the convent, wealth or consecrated poverty… these choices, big and small, shape my life, frame who I am and who I become. What a luxury choice is, in a world when many face hunger, poverty, privation, and the impossibility of change. Visiting the site of the World Trade Center prompts me to reflect on violence throughout the world. El Salvador has been on my mind lately, in part because I have been reading about Archbishop Oscar Romero, the San Salvadorean bishop and martyr, and in part because my congregation is establishing a volunteer house there. Terrorism was not a single, breathtaking event in the tiny, now stable, country. It was the rhythm of daily life. East Timor, another place newly dear to me, is recovering from a bloody conflict in which neighbor turned against neighbor and few families were left untouched. I consider my friend who lost both her parents in concentration camps in Nazi Germany, and my friend from Jordan, whose father still has the keys to his Palestinian home, confiscated by Israeli settlers decades ago. My own congregation has been forced to flee oppression. We, too, have had our homes wrenched away. We have the deeds to our properties in Cuba, as useful to us as the keys which the refugee Palestinian clings to. They are symbols, sacramentals, talismans, proof that we are not dreaming. There was hope once, and there will be again. Yet I should not speak of hope as a future. Looking back, I see the impossible happening again and again, even in my brief lifetime. The toppling of Ceausescu. The fall of the Berlin Wall. A Klansman tormentor who was reconciled with his victim, a rabbi, and who experienced conversion in heart and in religious practice just before his death. The rescue of nine Pennsylvania miners. The peaceful end of apartheid. My own transformation, from materialism and religious indifference into a woman who emulates the poor and humble Christ. That final miracle was in a way catalyzed by the acts of September 11. When the twin towers fell, something in me fell, too. My selfish thrust towards power and money, the service of self, died that day. I had tried for months to talk God out of making me into a nun, and had even struck a deal of sorts with Him. “Give me a year, and then we’ll talk.” I even took a job overseas, thinking that I would have my big adventure and only then consider giving God my “yes.” September 11 was my time to experience what is commonplace throughout the world: fear, grief, anger, loss. I lost my job at SwissAir. I feared for my friends. I was angry at the then unnamed terrorists who did such a horrible act. As the shock slowly wore off, it occurred to me that such grave violence could only be born out of desperation. Terrorism is a choice born out of hopelessness. The perception of a vast gulf between parties and the sense of being voiceless, marginalized, and maltreated are the seeds of violent acts. It was after experiencing the thorns of September 11 that I knew that God was calling me to be His soothing, loving presence in a world where the struggle to feel relevant, to be relevant, ends in such brutality. Within a few weeks following the tragedy, I was seeking direction from a Sister and meeting with other young adults also considering whether consecrated life (or, for the men, priesthood) was their calling. Two years of prayer, consultation, writing, and, yes, a few tears, have culminated in my entrance into the convent. And here I am, at the primary site of the tragedy that woke me up and turned my life upside down. So in a way, what I feel is profound gratitude. That’s not what I thought I would feel in this place, and I am disconcerted by the emotion. My life was given to me through the death of One, and now my life has been deepened and refocused by the death of many. The mystery of my faith and the mystery of my vocation are intimately entangled. I touch the crucifix I now wear as a postulant Handmaid and offer up thanks. I have come full circle in two years and it is good to be here. To the One, and to the many, I offer again my pledge to bring healing in whatever way I am able. I leave the site knowing I will return someday. The notes of the flute player have faded away, but the sounds of September 11 echo still. I remember.
Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email. September, 2003 “Have a good day.” I shake the priest’s hand after Mass and lean in to brush cheeks in the “air kiss” that is standard greeting here in Miami. “You, too, Sister.” I don’t even sputter my surprise. Never mind that I have never met him and that I’ve only been to Mass at this local university chapel twice before. I’m almost accustomed to recognition as a Religious(-in-training). I’d like to believe that after only two months of convent living, I have become converted enough in my ways to have the spiritual sparkle of a great mystic. Alas, I must face the fact that I fit the “profile” of a modern Sister: short haircut, no makeup, simple and modest dress, and a distinctive cross around my neck. This constellation contrasts dramatically with the appearance of the other twentysomething women in eyeshot. No, I’m not identifiable by the fragrance of sanctity surrounding me, nor by the glint of my halo. I’ve just been profiled, a casualty of post-Vatican II standard issue Birkenstocks and oversized crucifix. At first, I was very reluctant to use “Sister” to describe myself. After all, I’m not a vowed woman, or even a novice! It seemed fraudulent to use the term just a scant few weeks after setting foot in Miami and joining my community of Handmaids. Yet my hand was forced, so to speak. Repeatedly introduced to the congregation by my pastor as “Sister Joy,” I faced a choice. I could painfully detail the nuances of religious formation to each person I interacted with and explain why I was “just plain” Joy and not “Sister” Joy, or I could come to terms with being “Sister Joy.” I chose the latter. Since then, I’ve learned to react when someone says, “Excuse me, Sister?”. I’ve now got a few names. I answer the phone without “Sister”, usually, saying, “Handmaids of the Sacred Heart, this is Joy.” My friends from before the convent call me Joy. New friends in the parish usually call me Sister Joy or just plain Sister. To my community, other Religious, and priests, I’m Joy. College friends still sometimes call me by my well-loved nickname of Joyful. My email and checks give my first initial, too, making me K. Joy. To the seminarians at St. John Vianney, where I take theology and Spanish, I’m Joy, or Sister, depending. And to my health insurance, bank, stepmother, and the IRS, I’m Karen, which is my first name. Add to this the complicating factor of having Sister Kayjoy (not me) and K. Joy (me) living in the same house, and you can imagine the identity crisis! Now I have to ask myself what it means to use the term Sister. I think about my siblings and my feelings toward them. I am closest, in age and in shared experiences, to my sister Rachel, and I know that I would do anything for her. I’m growing closer to my no-longer-baby brother Ron, too. And I adore my older sister and her husband and three kids. I can imagine laying down my life for my siblings, as a sister. Can I do that as a Sister? Do I truly love, love, the people I serve? Am I willing to be emptied, to be tired and hungry after a long day of school and ministry, and still listen attentively to someone who just needs to talk? Being a sister, or a Sister, means saying “I’m on my way,” when that late night phone call wakes me up. It means being persistent in love, even when I feel irritated. It means coming to grips with my fears (can I really address the parish en espańol?) and dealing with situations I find distasteful (I do not want to change this kid’s diaper). Sisterly affection knows no prejudice, sees no skin color, forgives easily, and endures. Becoming the sister I long to be, to my three siblings (and their two spouses and three kids) is a lifelong process. I know that being the Sister I long to be, to so many more, will be the same.
Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email. November, 2003 “Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Seńor es contigo.” The Spanish version of the Hail Mary has a better rhythm for running than does the English. My feet strike the pavement as I mutter the prayer under my breath. It reminds me of scanning (reading in the poetic meter) the Aeneid in a college Latin class… each stressed syllable exaggerated as it bursts forth. “benDITA tú ERES entre TODAS las MUJERES,” I pray, wondering when it will dip below 80 degrees. It’s nearly Thanksgiving here and there’s no sign of winter. Or fall, for that matter. I can’t complain, really, as I enjoy the bay breeze and the ability to be comfortable in shorts and a T-Shirt in November. November! I feel the chafing of foot against sock against shoe and wonder whether it’s time to tell the community that we need to cough up $100 for a new pair of sneakers. I run past Home Depot and momentarily debate jogging in to see if they have a water fountain. Oh, right, wait, I’m praying. Attention! I manage to focus again and finish another round of the rosary. I launch into the final mysteries as I slow to a walk. Home, sweet home. I stretch and thank God for an unexpectedly good run today. I had started off with low expectations, feeling tired and stressed. But rather than the two miles I had resigned myself to, I managed five, and with no walking breaks! Sometimes I surprise myself. Last month I (foolishly? courageously?) signed up for a half-marathon, having never run farther than 10k, and that with lots of walking interspersed. Why am I running? No, not as penance! In part, I run to keep (or rather, regain) my girlish figure, which is under threat, assailed by a house of good cooks, late night study snacks, and “but there’s company tonight” desserts. Mostly, though, I am running to demonstrate that 1) there ARE young women who are still giving themselves to God as Sisters, 2) we are healthy, fit, attractive, enjoy life, and are not choosing religious life because we failed at the dating game. I also want to run a full marathon when I make my first vows in a couple of years and this is a good way to get in shape for it. Last but not least, it’s a good way to get publicity. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have T-shirts made for my “Wannabe a Nun Run” and sell them to raise money for our missions. I’ll certainly be asking my friends, parishioners, fellow runners, and family to pray for me as I train and on race day, and also to pray for those who are considering a church vocation (priesthood or religious life). My own journey to the convent has been as unlikely as my running 13.1 miles! So as I run I’ll remember those times of confusion, doubt, and daring, and pray for those men and women who are in that same headspace right now. Exercise is one of those things that I enjoy in retrospect. I like that I run. I don’t particularly care for running while I am in the act. But I keep doing it because, as I tell myself, “I am an athlete.” Not “I want to be an athlete” or “I wish I were an athlete.” I am an athlete, so I run, whether I feel like it or not. This same psychology works in my prayer life. Prayer is usually something I truly enjoy and find refreshing… but not always! Some days I pray just because “I’m a pray-er.” Each day, in the convent, I make morning and evening prayer with my Sisters, plus an hour of reflection on Scripture and an hour of adoration before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. I attend Mass at my local parish each day, with the Sisters if I can, or on my own if not. At the end of the day, I make an examination of consciousness, where I review my day and make plans to follow God more closely tomorrow. Often my prayer life is supplemented by a running rosary, spiritual reading, extra adoration, or simply stopping at a few points to say “hi” to my Best Friend. Oh, and of course we pray before our meals. And I do try to remember to pray before I drive… if not for me, for the poor travelers who encounter me! This is a lot of praying. Sometimes I am wiped out, distracted, frustrated, or otherwise poorly disposed for prayer. That’s when I just “show up” before God because I am a pray-er. “God, here I am. This is all I can offer today, my presence.” And sometimes God really surprises me, the same way my five-miler surprised me today. I’ll leave the chapel feeling like I’m walking on air, radiating God’s love. But whether I have an average prayer day or an awesome prayer day, I am faithful to the habits of prayer that form my life. I am a pray-er. I am an athlete. I am a child of God.
Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email. December, 2003 A friend of mine entered religious life at the same time I did. The other day we were comparing notes. I told him that my experience has so far been very pleasant. “I was expecting boot camp,” I said. “Not in the way people treated me, that is. I know my congregation well enough to know that there’s not a drill sergeant type among them, at least that I know of. But I did think that the shock to my system would be like basic training. New people, new city, new food, new language, new everything. Instead, I’ve had a very smooth transition. I feel pretty lucky.” “Well, it’s been the opposite for me,” my friend told me. “I don’t pray the right way, I sing off key, it seems like I just can’t do anything right!” He didn’t look glum, though, and straightened his shoulders as he affirmed his choice. “But I’m not giving up! I want to give religious life a fair chance. I really think that’s what God is calling me to.” I promised to pray for him and we went our separate ways. Since then I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what’s easy in my life and what’s hard. Living with these four women is easy. Living with myself is hard. I’ve not had the best luck with roommates, to be honest. Either I’ve been a thoughtless slob or my roommate has. Or one of us has had an emotional breakdown, or a freaky boyfriend, or an annoying pet, or eaten smelly food, or something. So it came as a nice surprise that living with not one, not two, but four other women was a good roommate situation. There’s no trash can brinksmanship: “I can teeter this empty [whatever] on top and squish the rest down… and avoid taking it out!” There’s no loud music, there’s no washing machine competition, there’s no really annoying habits to speak of. From a mundane, non-spiritual point of view, life is easy. Living with myself, however… not so easy. Corporate life had the advantage of keeping me pretty busy with doing stuff. And if I wasn’t doing work stuff, I was doing church stuff. I did pray, but mostly my prayer life revolved around, well, doing stuff. Worldspan people will not be surprised to learn that I often took programs to prayer… and sometimes would get unexpected answers to thorny design issues during adoration! Now, in formation, I’m still busy. I don’t want anyone to get the impression that postulancy is like an extra-long spa day. I do young adult ministry, and I go to school, and I shop, and cook, and do website work, and so forth. However, a good portion of my day is devoted to just being. My prayer life still has a tendency to drift into rehearsal for the rest of my life. More and more, however, there is nowhere to turn from the pressing demand of being – being wholly me before the God who knows me in every way. Ow! This is hard! It’s hard in the same way seeing yourself in home videos is hard. Or hearing yourself on a recording. That’s how I sound? That’s how I look? The deeper my prayer life gets (and I’m still in the shallow end of the pool, let’s not forget), the more I am confronted with me. I am chronically myself, with lots of room to grow! Lucky me, I have good roommates to help me figure myself out. Leaving people – easy. People leaving me – hard. I once spoke with a girlfriend about an ex of mine. I said, “I want him to be happy, but not entirely happy… It would be nice if he could sort of pine for me sometimes as the road not taken.” I was joking, but not really. Leaving has been the minor key that has made this whole adventure a little sad sometimes. Giving away my stuff was hard. Quitting pro-life ministry was easy. Leaving work was harder than I thought. Leaving Atlanta was pretty easy. Moving even farther away from my Tennessee family has been really hard, which didn’t even occur to me. I’m blessed in that I bloom where I am planted and don’t tend to get homesick… but I do have fears about leaving my old life behind. The common thread is that I don’t miss people that much, but I do miss them being interested in me! Let’s see if I can phrase this in a less egotistical way. I guess I don’t want to disappear from people’s lives entirely. I don’t want to sink, shiplike, in the memory of my coworkers, coworshipers, and friends. I fear that the waves of time will close over me and I will be forgotten. I want people to be happy, but miss me, too. Sounds selfish, but that goes back to point one, learning about me, the good, bad, and ugly. There’s a lot about my “public” life that’s easy. I like to talk, I feel comfortable speaking in public and I’m pretty much an inveterate extrovert. Yet being “on” all the time is hard, too. I made the comment to one of the Sisters here, “I’m just going to have to be nice to everyone all the time, because everyone knows each other here!” I know that fairly or unfairly, I am representing my whole house when I go out. And sometimes, like tonight, when I go hang out with the teens at their posada, I represent the whole of religious life. Some of these kids don’t know any Sisters or Brothers, and I’m it for their exposure to religious life. Do I try to be “hip”, or is that cheapening my image? I play it by ear and try to be Christlike. That’s the best I can do. But when I’m alone in the car, I still sometimes turn the radio station to alternative and rock out to STP or Nirvana… very unnunny music… just to remember that I’m still me. Happy Advent, Gentle Readers. May the peace of Christ reign in you and yours. God is with your easy and hard times… just as God is with me now.
Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email. December, 2003 I ran nine miles today. I cannot believe it! Actually I probably walked about one of those miles, but regardless, I did nine miles at a stretch. That’s not too shabby for the gal who couldn’t run to the corner without huffing and puffing like mad just a few months ago. Today, after my run, I retreated to my bedroom to let my sore feet stay upright while I did my prayer of reflection on scripture. I read the story of the Annunciation: “In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a town of Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David, and the virgin's name was Mary. And coming to her, he said, ‘Hail, favored one! The Lord is with you.’ But she was greatly troubled at what was said and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” The story goes on, but I really got a lot out of just this part. I don’t typically think of Mary as troubled. She is often depicted as placid, accepting, mild. Yet here she seems deeply disturbed at what the angel says. No wonder! I mean, if I had just gotten my life all lined up, husband figured out, future mapped, and then I get an angelic visitor telling me God is keeping tabs on me, I would probably be “troubled” too. I imagine the stillness of a lake, on a windless day, suddenly shattered by a boulder tumbling in. That’s at least as troubled as Mary must have been. The word “disturbed” kept springing to mind as I imagined how all Mary’s plans for her life came unraveled in one moment. I was massaging my sore calf muscle while I was pondering this and I realized that to be disturbed, to be troubled, by God’s unexpected plan, is exactly what keeps us healthy. If I don’t disturb my leg, deeply pushing my thumbs along the sore, tight spots, I’ll be hobbled tomorrow. If I don’t let God disturb me, I’ll stay stuck in my routine, in my habits, in the status quo. My legs don’t appreciate the attention; they’d rather be left alone, knots unchallenged. My ego doesn’t appreciate God’s attention sometimes. It, too, would rather be left alone, with whatever erroneous ideas I have or bad habits I’ve cultivated left in place. If the Blessed Mother, who was and is the holiest among us mortals, is subject to God’s troubling presence, then how much more will I be! After all, I need lots of correction. Lots of kinks to be massaged out, lots of knots to be relaxed away. I guess the moral of the story is not to look for calmness and stability as a sign I’m on the right path. After all, the last thing I felt when I decided to plunge from corporate life into religious life was calm and stable! Sometimes the sign that God is at work in me is a sense of being greatly troubled. So, with one eye squinched shut and with a little apprehension, I say… “Keep troubling me, Lord!” Copyright © 2005 Handmaids of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. All rights reserved. Contact the author by email.
|
|||
|
|
||||
