Commencement tomorrow marks the close of my first full year of working at the university. The last several months have been the busiest I’ve experienced since starting there. And as a natural consequence, I feel like my personal life has been put on hold.

One welcome release I have found during this time has been reading for pleasure (not for purpose, as is normally the case). A dear student and friend of mine introduced me to a few books that she enjoyed and I just finished the second one.

Who knew reading could be so healthy? I just had myself a good cry and my eyes are sufficiently puffy and swollen for attending the graduation ceremony tomorrow. Not fantastic timing but I wouldn’t take it back. Lord, there’s something so cathartic about a good cry.

I don’t care to rehash the storyline here. Suffice it to say the book and the emotions that followed reawakened a deep heartfelt desire of mine– that of becoming a wife and a mother.

What’s interesting is that it’s a desire that I speak of often and openly. It’s not a dream that I have repressed but one that I own without hesitation. So it’s curious that it touched me so deeply tonight.

But that’s the beauty of art– whether it’s a written piece, visual art, or spoken word. It has the ability to tap into areas that are often inaccessible in everyday life. And I regard the tears that sometimes follow these encounters as a great gift.

It’s experiences like the one tonight that remind me I’m alive and that the desire and the dream I hold in my heart is deep and real and full. And somehow the reminder of its depth acts as an assurance of its future existence. The desire itself becomes the promise.

There’s a very large family that attends my church. A married couple with 8 kids or so, 3 of which are foster children. Such an awesome witness to the Catholic faith. Opening their home to life as God gives it and proving against all rationality that there is enough. There is enough love and there is enough means to sustain the needs of such a large family.

They often show up late for Mass and appear frazzled as they walk into church. No wonder– I can’t imagine coralling a family of ten on a Sunday morning. Then they get to tackle the challenge of finding a pew that can fit them all which is no small task.

This morning, they had to split into three pews because the people at the end of my pew wouldn’t move down. I was so frustrated I could barely contain it. Here we claim to celebrate large families because of our faith but offer no accommodation for them when they arrive in their need.

I was really hoping to catch the mother after Mass so I could apologize to her, but she left early. I did manage to catch the father on his way out. I could tell he was frustrated and wasn’t willing to receive an apology from anyone, but I tried anyways.

He said it happens sometimes. “But it shouldn’t,” I responded. He wasn’t in a mood to continue talking about it though. So the conversation ended somewhat abruptly and awkwardly.

As I walked away I wanted to correct the issue. I wanted to tell the ushers they needed to take care of this family and that they fell short on it today. I wanted to make an announcement telling the whole congregation that they needed to shape up and that their lack of accommodation is unacceptable. I wanted to tell the pastor so he could address it.

Then I realized as I was driving home that wasn’t my place. None of those actions would make this better. The damage had been done and clearly it wasn’t the first time. I couldn’t take that away.

It became clear to me that I wasn’t called to resolve the situation. All that was asked of me was to share in the family’s suffering. To receive the misplaced negativity from the father and own it on behalf of the congregation. To receive his hurt and that of his wife and feel that frustration and pain with them. To sit in that place with them.

Lord, help me to avoid running to a solution so I don’t have to feel other people’s hurt. Let me take it in and absorb what I can on their behalf. Give me the courage and humility to accompany them in that space, believing that I am somehow lightening their burden by partaking in it.

Jesus, be our model. You didn’t change our circumstances. Instead, you decided to enter in and share in our reality. Such an incredible gift. I can’t imagine a more compassionate response.

You could have changed the world but what mattered more is that you stepped into it and chose to live it with us. Lord, show us how to do the same for others. When it’s not our place to change the world, let us take on our portion of the burden gladly, knowing that our compassion is the most divinely human response we can offer. Amen.

Just last night I took Sammy outside for some fresh air and experienced something magical without pursuing it. (As is often the case with magic.)

There’s this awful looking shrub in the lower corner of my yard that I’ve been wanting to get rid of forever. To say it looks haggard would be kind. It looks like a shrub from the scary haunted forests found in Disney movies.

It exhibits the strangest combination of old gray wrinkles and new blossoms of springtime, with the former clearly outweighing the latter. I soon found myself breaking off the small, fragile, and hideous branches that were dead– first with one hand then as I was drawn into the mystery of this tree and its fading, flaking bark, the other hand too began to take part in the exploration.

It occurred to me as I studied and reveled in its oddly intriguing beauty that my experience of this little tree was far more engaging and impactful when I committed both hands to the endeavor. This ugly little tree somehow became better and richer with both hands.

Come to think of it, isn’t that the case with all things in life? Everything’s better with both hands. It seems that whatever my two hands hold somehow takes hold of all of me in return.

Carefully holding a newborn baby to my chest.

Digging in the dirt as I weed my garden.

Warmly hugging a friend who’s hurting.

Cupping my hands together to catch raindrops and snowflakes as they fall.

Intentionally holding the steering wheel as I drive down a winding road.

Softly embracing the face of the one I love before a kiss.

Life’s better with two hands. Life’s better with all of me and that’s what my two hands bring to the table, often without my knowledge and without my consent.

Oh that I would more readily embrace the things and people in my life that require two hands instead of disdaining the additional effort that is required of them! If only I could consider the effort less and the gift of total presence more. How much richer would my life be?

---

I’m sitting at the Salt Lake City airport, killing time as I wait for my connecting flight. The lengthy four hour layover offers a fruitful space for pondering.

There is a wall here that showcases some landscape paintings from regional artists. As I studied the various brush strokes, colors, styles, and scenes, I soon found myself drawn in and enamored by them.

I’ve recently been struck by the beauty of things, primarily in nature– mountain ranges, flowers and trees in bloom, the sky. They make me so aware of God’s love for me. Each one is another verse in His great love song for me, meant to romance and win my heart. And so it was as I viewed the paintings today.

It occurred to me how much pleasure they must also bring God. To know that His original creation captured and romanced someone’s attention– so much so that the beholder felt compelled to replicate it and share it with others.

Also, the artist’s re-creation brings the grandeur of God’s design to a wider audience, many of whom may never have the opportunity to experience the original creation firsthand.

And perhaps more importantly, by expressing it through his own hands and eyes, the artist adds a very real, tangible element of himself to the original work. In doing so, he collaborates with God to create an even richer portrayal of the original beauty.

And finally, the artist’s efforts invite the audience to participate in this new creation as well. How much more beauty is brought to the experience through the people who are brave enough and open enough to enter into that sacred space and bring themselves to it!

One could argue that the artist and the audience bring the work to completion. While the original work lacked nothing, their participation in the creative endeavor elevates the final product to even greater heights. 

I’m sitting in my livingroom this evening watching TV. I had opened a window earlier tonight to welcome in the cool fresh air. Fall is upon us and I love it.

As I flipped through the channels aimlessly, I could hear the dim rhythm of rain falling outside.

It occurred to me that this rain might be more pleasing to my ears if I muted the television. So I did. I continued to watch the imagery flash before my eyes as the sweet pitter patter of raindrops serenaded me outside.

It didn’t take long to realize that nothing on TV deserved to be paired with this sweet natural symphony. And so I turned the TV off without the slightest regret.

Even now that the rain has passed, my heart is so soothed by its former presence that I wish to never move from this place. I can think of no better use of my time than to let the comfort of the rain linger still as I rest.

Thank God for the grace to be fully present in this moment- a true and rare gift. Nothing else matters in this space.

At mass this morning, we read James 2:14-17 commonly referred to as the “Faith and Works” passage. It’s often cited to demonstrate the unique Catholic view on salvation.

While many Christians believe professing faith in Christ begets salvation, Catholics believe that the certainty of this promise cannot be predicted by man but only by God who can fully see into the human heart.

To be sure, it is by grace alone that we could ever claim admittance into the lavish kingdom God has prepared for us. Good works, in and of themselves, hold no salvific power. But they are a natural expression of a heart that’s been won over by Christ- a heart that’s been saved by grace. If good works are foreign to one’s daily life, it would appear that the battle is not yet won.

Isn’t this the call of the Christian life? The continual acceptance of grace so that our hearts might be reshaped in the image of Christ and our actions might be a natural outward display of this internal disposition.

Whenever something impacts or shakes us, instead of running from it or trying to sort it out on our own, we might consider taking the matter to a consultant. Maybe there is something there we ought to consider. Maybe there isn’t and it’s just someone talking.

Whatever the case, these moments should never be cause for concern because we have access to the ultimate consultant. We can experience the unsettling moments openly and freely without anxiety knowing that he will show us what to keep and what to discard. Discomfort and confusion is just an invitation for dialogue with him who loves us.

If he’s shaking us, there’s usually good cause for it. And if he gives us something new to consider, we can trust he’ll also give us whatever we need to walk the unexpected path that may result from it.

 

Chasing highs can be disappointing.

The trick is to find satisfaction in the normal and celebrate the high as the exception. Otherwise, we can unknowingly create a new norm where highs are the rule and anything less is a disappointment.

How great would it be to let the high reside in the special realm it was meant to and relish in the joy it brings us for a time without redefining our norm. This is easier said than done most times, but I’m convinced it’s worth the effort.

Blessed are those who have companions to help them rest in the ordinary and find satisfaction there instead of constantly chasing highs.

It’s 3:57 in the morning and I just finished watching the most viewed daytime television event in history- the wedding of Luke & Laura on General Hospital in 1981.

I’ve never been a soap opera fan but insomnia will make you do strange things. I treated it mainly as a study of an era. I was most interested in observing the clothing, the makeup, the hairstyles, the caliber of acting and the content of the storyline.

After viewing it, I found myself in a dreamlike state as I walked about my house. I could see my pink slippers, the view of my backyard from the kitchen, the lamp beside the livingroom couch- but I was seeing it all through a different lense.

It was as if I was taking mental snapshots for future perusal without meaning to. I was seeing each scene as if I was remembering it later in life. Such an odd experience.

But that’s the gift drama. No matter how far-fetched the storyline, it can make us freeze time, take inventory and recognize the power of the present moment.

A great gift indeed and all thanks to a sleepless night and a soap opera episode I will never view again.

The more I experience, the more convinced I am that the outcomes don’t matter. What we perceive as a positive outcome is not necessarily an indicator of God’s blessing or His presence. Likewise, a poor outcome is not an indicator of His absence or disappointment.

It’s so tempting to measure God’s love by the outcome of things we pray for. But that’s too narrow a view for a God as great as ours. Outcomes were never intended to be a measure of God’s love. They are simply a part of the journey, adding depth and dimension to our lives.

Good, bad and indifferent outcomes can all have the same rich impact– that is, if we allow God to walk alongside us and inform our experiences. I believe that’s the point– to learn to share everything with Him. That’s where the gift is. It’s not in the results.