Saturday, June 29, 2019

On the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul

I went to Mass this morning with my younger two daughters, and after Mass I was talking with our pastor and telling him how much our recent trip has changed the way that I think of St. Peter and St. Paul (and all the saints and the whole Church in general, but that's several articles and blog posts worth of reflections). Earlier this month, our youngest daughter and I had the chance to tag along with my husband on a work trip around Italy, visiting archaeological sites related to the early Church. Many of the sites we visited were in Rome/Vatican City.  

After visiting the sites where Peter and Paul walked and preached the Gospel, they are more real to me than ever before. 

Before I go any further, disclaimer...I am not an expert on Petrine and Pauline sites in Italy, but I have friends who are smarter than I am. Just about everything I'm sharing here, I learned from them. 

One of the perks of being married to a seminary professor means that there are always friends in Rome! So, special thanks to our friends Fr. Seiler (who is studying to be an apostolic nuncio...pray for him!) and Fr. Auer (who is a new, baby priest...pray for him!) who said Mass for us and showed us around St. Peter's. 


And a special thanks to our friend Paul (who is studying to be a priest for the Archdiocese of Omaha...pray for him!) who showed us around a million churches, including St. Paul Outside the Walls.


I have always loved St. Peter because he is so humble and he always seems to be either saying the most perfect thing or the most awkward thing. I love, love how many times Peter says something completely awkward or messes up, but keeps coming back to Jesus. I love that he is so weak, so imperfect, and yet chosen by Christ to be the first leader of the Church on earth. 

When you stand in St. Peter's square, it feels surreal. How many times have you seen this view on TV or on the internet? 




But back in the day, this square wasn't a beautiful, peaceful place that pointed people to heaven. It was outside of the city walls of Rome, across the Tiber River. It was where you took people to be buried or executed. It was a cemetery. In the very center of the square is an obelisk. It is stark and made of concrete, and although it has been moved slightly (it's original location is by one of the gates that leads into Vatican City proper) it is the exact same obelisk that would have been in Peter's line of sight when he was being crucified. Tradition holds that this very obelisk may have been the very last thing that Peter saw, when he was giving up his life for Christ. 


The inside of St. Peter's overwhelms the senses. Because it is in the Baroque style, great care was taken to make even the most enormous features seem smaller than they are. It was designed to make you feel as if heaven had come to earth. 

But more stunning than anything else in St. Peter's is a humble grave, situated under the main altar. Still humble, still unexpected, Peter's simplicity is what makes him so remarkable.



It is really hard to capture what Peter's grave looks like (you aren't allowed to take pictures down in the crypt and you can't descend the stairs that are in front of the altar). Standing there took my breath away. That altar, this church...it is the center of the Church. If you dropped a pin from the center of the dome, it would fall directly on Peter's grave. Buried here by fellow Christians after his death, they continued to mark his tomb for years. Tradition maintained the location of Peter's bones (and archaeology and DNA testing later confirmed it). It is a simple stone grave, marked with red stripe of paint. 

But the Church and the church are literally built on the rock of St. Peter.  




I stood there, gazing down at his grave, for the longest time. I prayed fervently for a special intention that had been placed on my heart. And I pondered that there, right before me, lay the bones of Peter. One of Jesus's best friends and closest companions, a simple fisherman from Galilee was buried right there. Never could he have imagined that his life would end violently, outside the walls of Rome. Neither could he have imagined the foundation his faith in Christ would lay for millions and billions of Christians. 

Christ chose this humble, ordinary man. And looking at his grave, I realized that he was real. It was all real. 



Another story of pious tradition, surrounding the life of St. Peter is the "Quo Vadis" story. In the height of the persecution of the Christians, Peter fled Rome. He was headed away from Rome, along the Appian Way. The picture above is from the path that winds along the outer grounds of the Catacombs of San Calisto (where half a million early Christians were buried). As you walk through the fields above the catacombs, you see a wall bordering the land. That wall runs along the ancient Appian Way, the road leading out of Rome. At the beginning of the road is the Church of the Quo Vadis. 

At that spot, the fleeing Peter encountered Christ, headed back toward Rome. Peter asked him, "Quo vadis?" Which means, "Where are you going?" And Christ replied, "I am going to Rome, to be crucified again." Peter realized that Christ was asking him to return to Rome, to suffer for Him. 


It is an ordinary road. Whether or not the story is true or legend we don't know, but Peter likely did walk on this road, and Christ may have appeared to him. This, too, was part of the story of the fisherman from Galilee. 


And then, there's Paul. 

St. Paul's epistles are some of my favorite books in the Bible. His reflections on his weakness and need for Christ's grace (and deep awareness of how Christ worked through his weakness) have been so formative for my own faith journey. Paul, too, found himself in a place that he never imagined. 

One of the last churches that we visited in Italy was St. Paul Outside the Walls. It is one of the papal basilicas. St. Paul wasn't killed on this spot, just buried here. He was beheaded in a swamp not far from here.



This church is an old one (it has mosaics dating back to the patristic period, which is why we were visiting it) but it is actually built on the foundations of an even older church. And, like in St. Peter's, this church was built up around the bones of a saint. Under the main altar is the grave of St. Paul. Like Peter's grave, it is a simple stone grave.


Over the altar is a triumphal arch. (This is the mosaic that dates back to the period of the early Church - fourth or fifth century, I think?) The triumphal arch was an architectural feature that was used by the Romans, but this one wasn't dedicated to a Roman Emperor. Instead, it featured Christ, surrounded by the four evangelists (the symbols for the evangelists are a common appearance in these early mosaics) and the saints and angels. And, as a reminder of what Christ has triumphed over, Paul's grave is right under this triumphal arch. Our friend Paul highlighted this fact for us, especially. "You see the triumphal arch. But what is the triumph? 'Oh, death, where is your victory? Oh, death, where is your sting??'" (He read a passage from the epistles for us as we stood gazing down at the tomb of St. Paul, and that moment sealed for me the meaning of that verse.) St. Paul's martyrdom was a victory, for Christ has conquered death. So aware of that were the early Christians, that they placed a symbol of triumph over the bones of Paul. 





(If you look through the grillwork, beyond the brick, you can see the white stone of St. Paul's grave.)

Lost in the sacrifices and sufferings of daily life, it is so easy to look at the lives of the saints and forget that they are real. But they are. They're real. It's all real. 

They aren't just stories. They aren't imaginary people. It isn't just a nice story, meant to make us feel good. The faith is everything. It is worth dying for. It is worth living for. And the sacrifices and sufferings that we are invited to bear, as we follow Christ - they are worth it. It is all worth it. 



Saturday, June 1, 2019

Becoming a Spiritual Mother (At Any Age)

Last week, I finished up my second chasuble, for another good friend who was about to be ordained. As I was hanging it up to take a picture, I was struck by it's placement...right next to the beautiful little quote a best friend gave me after Gabriel died. (You can order one from Katrina here.)


Back when I was discerning my vocation, I remember bargaining with God. I felt the call to marriage, but I was afraid that it wouldn't be a holy enough vocation. (Which I laugh at now. I can't imagine any other vocation capable of reminding me of my weaknesses and need for God's grace the way this one does, while simultaneously giving me a daily glimpse of God's love for me.) I knelt before the tabernacle, praying, "Okay, God, you can call me to marriage...but can you give me a son? And can he be called to be a priest?" Of course, God's plan for Gabriel was very different than mine.

But my motherhood of Gabriel trained my heart in a way that it wouldn't have been otherwise. Typically, a mother has to say a sort of good-bye to her grown children, allowing them to fly from the nest. But I had to say good-bye to Gabriel after only a few weeks with him. I wasn't ready. And I haven't stopped loving him, not for one minute. I have prayed ceaselessly that he may receive the benefits of Baptism, even though he was only given a conditional baptism, and God has consoled me by answering many of the intentions I entrust to my little guy. I am fully convinced that he is part of God's plan, and that my little love is playing a role in the Church that I won't fully understand in this lifetime. 

What Gabriel taught me was how to love deeply while also being willing to let go. He taught me that love is worth suffering. Walking away from his grave was and is one of the hardest things I have to do. I hate that his tiny little body is in a casket, buried deep in the ground. I hate that he isn't in my arms, or running around with his pack of sisters. But I'm willing to continue loving him, even though it's painful. I am willing to continue to mother him through my prayers, even if I don't get to enjoy the benefit of seeing him grow. He is a gift, and he has been more than worth the pain. 

It was this love of Gabriel that prepared me for spiritual motherhood to priests and seminarians. 


Because if I'm honest, being involved with the seminary the way our family is is both a source of joy and ongoing loss. I sometimes compare spiritual motherhood to a seminarian to mothering a child in utero. Not every one of them makes it to ordination. Many discern out of seminary before then. I still care for those guys and pray for them, and I know that God has a plan for them. (I have too many friends married to former seminarians to believe otherwise!) But the end of the year rounds of emails, sharing who is leaving the seminary, can be emotionally hard. Even if you can see God at work in their lives, it is hard to entrust them to God and know that they will no longer be a part of your life in the same way. 

Ordination season is also at the end of the year. There is such tremendous joy, in knowing that a man has discerned the vocation to priesthood and will now be living it out. I can't begin to put into words the joy that is on the face of a new priest. It is a glimpse of heaven. I also can't begin to describe the joy of getting to be present at that ordination, and to witness the birth of a new baby priest. There is so much joy, and I can't believe that I get to experience it with them. 


But it is also painful. It is so painful. This man, who you have known and come to love over the course of years, is flying the nest of the seminary. A priest belongs to everyone and no one. You can't cling to friendship with a priest, the way you would to friendship with a lay person. He belongs to all. And you have to let go. You just have to. But you also have to not stop loving him. Because baby priests need even more prayers than seminarians. Especially in our current culture, it is an incredibly difficult vocation, with guaranteed persecution in one form or another. That persecution will probably only get worse, as these young priests age.  

Andrew has been teaching at the seminary for five years this fall. In the last half decade, I felt an ever growing call to spiritual motherhood. But I have also felt a strong call to share this vocation with others. A good friend of mine introduced me to spiritual motherhood of priests, and it's become clearly and clearer to me that this is a vocation that the Church needs...and it can only be filled by women. It is our opportunity to assist Mary, the Blessed Mother, in her great work for the Church.

After this most recent ordination, I quietly went over to my friend's family pew. He had asked me if I could cut the threads on the diaconate stole that I had sewn for him, so that it could be opened into a priest stole and worn for his first blessings. As I sat quietly trimming the threads, his mother caught my eye. She leaned over and asked, "Did you sew that for him?" I told her I did, and she reached out and gently cupped my cheek with her hand. She beamed, and said with deep feeling, "Thank you!" 

I was praying with that moment later, and reflecting on the interactions I had seen between this new priest and his mother. At the end of a priest's first Mass,  he presents his mother with the cloth that was used to wipe the Chrism oil from his newly ordained hands. Since Gabriel's death, that moment always gives me a pang in my heart. Gabriel will never do that. Mothers of priests have a special role in their son's life, and it is a special vocation. It also isn't my vocation (at least not that I know of...unless we are someday blessed with another son). But from that moment that my priest friend's mother showed me that gratitude and tenderness, I realized something. Her tenderness is the same tenderness that Mary shows to all spiritual mothers. Mary is the mother of the true priest, Christ. She is also a mother to all priests, in a way that I never can be. But she invites other women to join her in that work. If you are a woman reading this, she is inviting you.


I am no one special. I am an ordinary Catholic woman. But I have been given an extraordinary opportunity, to glimpse into the hearts of so many seminarians and priests and to be able to call them friends. Oh, friends...I wish you knew them. They are ordinary men with an extraordinary love for Christ and His Church. Their "yes" to their vocation strengthens me in my own vocation. 

And you can be a spiritual mother to them, too, no matter how old or young you are. 

Last year, my oldest daughter's best seminarian friend was ordained a priest. It was hard for her to say good-bye to him. We've seen him since then, but his home diocese is pretty far from ours, and so we weren't sure when we would see him again. In her sadness, I encouraged her to adopt him as her spiritual son. And she did, much to his delight. 

Our first ordination of this season was a diaconate ordination near our diocese. My oldest daughter's "spiritual son" was going to be one of the concelebrants, and she eagerly watched for him in the opening procession. They both were so happy to see each other. Not to be outdone by her big sister, my middle daughter decided that she wanted a spiritual son, too. One of her favorite seminarians was getting ordained a transitional deacon at this Mass, and after hearing her sister's delight over her spiritual son, my middle daughter declared, "Well, Michael is my spiritual son!" Then, she decided she couldn't stop there. Two more of our seminarian friends were also getting ordained to the transitional diaconate at this Mass, and I asked her if Dominic and the other Michael were her spiritual sons, too. "Yes!" she declared. "They are my spiritual sons, too!"

The conversation continued, and this dear little girl went on to declare that, in fact, all of the men up there getting ordained (even the ones she didn't know) were her spiritual sons. 

"They are all my spiritual sons. All the priests and seminarians in the whole world!" I asked her how many spiritual sons she had. "I have a thousand spiritual sons!!!" Also included is our pastor (who is much beloved by her), our auxiliary bishop (who baptized her and who she refers to as "her guy" as a result), the rector of the seminary, her favorite priest from Omaha, and many, many others. 

She and her sister inspire me. Of course, with their patron saints, I shouldn't be surprised. 



Our oldest is named for St. Therese of Lisieux, who had a deep love for priests, and was a devoted spiritual mother to them. Our second daughter is named after Mary, who is the Mother of Priests. I am not in the least surprised that these loving girls of mine (both who are very possessive of their patron saints) would want to take up this mantle of spiritual motherhood. 

But, you may wonder, what does spiritual motherhood look like if you aren't in close contact with priests and seminarians? What does it look like for a grown woman vs. a little girl?

In some cases, it looks like friendship. Every church has at least one priest associated with them, so every Catholic woman knows at least one priest. Can you and your family befriend him? Have him over for dinner? Send him a card on Father's Day? Smile at him and greet him every Sunday after Mass? Do it.

But whether you have priest friends or not, spiritual motherhood is much more than that. It is about prayer and sacrifice. 

This is possible for even little ones. My oldest hates practicing violin, so this Lent she offered that up for her spiritual son. Whenever my second daughter is frustrated by something out of her control, or bored, and tired of waiting, I try to encourage her, "You can offer that for your spiritual sons." (It doesn't always work, because she's five years old, but it's still planting a seed. It is so much easier to offer up suffering or sacrifices for someone you love than it is to do it in the abstract.) And I try to do the same. On my roughest days, whenever I have to do something I'd rather not or am battling depression or anxiety, I remind myself, "It's ok. This is your sacrifice."  I was especially encouraged by my friend's first Mass, when he invited us to unite all of our sacrifices with the one he was offering on the altar. 




So pick a priest or two (even if it isn't someone you know personally...sometimes I intentionally choose to pray for a priest who I disagree with!). And hold him in your heart and your prayers. Offer up daily little sacrifices of love for him. It won't make the suffering or sacrifices you face not painful, but it will imbue even little moments of sacrifice with love. 

Our priests need this. They need our love and prayers so badly. And they each need an army of little spiritual mothers who tuck them deeply into their hearts and prayers. 

And, of course, if the priest or seminarian you've adopted as a spiritual son is your friend, let him know that you are praying for him. It is such an encouragement to them. 



I don't know what the short term solutions are for the Church, but I do know this - there is an army of men laying down their lives for Christ and his Church. They aren't conquering by clericalism and pride and power. They are conquering with countless quiet, unknown sacrifices and prayers offered for the sake of love for God and His people. They grow in number by the year. And they will save the Church, with the help of our love and prayers. There is hope, so much hope, for the Church. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Celebrating Holy Week (as a Family)...

"Just over three years ago, on Palm Sunday, we found out that we were expecting our third child. We were overjoyed. Our secondary infertility had been particularly challenging that time around, and we had long been hoping and praying for this little child. A positive pregnancy test has always been a cause for gratitude for me (having faced secondary infertility twice), but the joy I felt at this one was different. It had just been so long, so very, very long, since we had been able to conceive. I was crying happy tears as I told my husband, and he and I laughed with delight.
That Holy Week was tinged with so much hope and joy. As I participated in the liturgies of the Triduum, I was mindful of the little child that I carried. I dreamed of having him in my arms the following Easter..."

Monday, April 8, 2019

My Sacrifice

The other day, I was talking to one of my seminarian friends about a talk he was preparing to give. He was hoping to encourage a group of young families to attempt bringing their little kids to Mass more, and he was wondering if I had any ideas. But then, he told me the central theme that HE had come up with, and it stuck with me.



He was reflecting on the idea of sacrifice at Mass - that the priest is offering the sacrifice of the Mass, but he doesn't just call it his sacrifice. He refers to the sacrifice as "my sacrifice and yours." My friend was saying that, in a very real way, our sacrifices we bring to Mass (and for those with small children or infertility Mass can be very difficult to attend, although for different reasons). He was mainly talking about families with small children, but I can think of others who also sacrifice much to be present at Mass. I know from my own brief experience of secondary infertility how painful attending a church filled with babies can be. I can only imagine how much more painful it would have been without children in my arms.

Likewise, those suffering from grief may struggle to make it through Mass without crying. Some of those griefs are visible, but some - like miscarriage - aren't. My parish actually listed Gabriel as one of the members of the parish who died that year, and just that recognition helped...but most people in our church had no idea that we were grieving the loss of a child. That's just the nature of miscarriage in our society.

My hyperemesis gravidarum gave me a tiny glimpse into the physical suffering of so many who are ill and/or elderly at Mass. For many, just the physical endurance needed to attend Mass makes it a tremendous sacrifice.





These days, though, I'm mostly in the midst of  the "taking care of multiple small children at Mass" version of sacrifice. Having struggled to conceive AND having lost one, I don't take these little ones for granted. But, despite my gratitude for them, it still is hard work taking care of them. Our youngest is a toddler and she is the busiest person I have ever met. Mass is no exception.

Lately, I've been feeling God nudging me to be open to the sacrifices HE IS ASKING for, rather than stubbornly trying to stick to my own idea of perfection. After talking to my friend last week (and going to Confession on Saturday for an extra booster shot of grace) my heart was open to this idea of joining my sacrifice with the priest's.

It completely changed my experience of Mass.

When everything began to unravel, when I spent almost the entire Mass in the back of church or the vestibule or chasing the toddler down the aisle (in her defense, I asked her if she wanted to go up to see Jesus and the priest and she figured there was no time like the present) - I just reminded myself, "This is my sacrifice." I gazed at the priest elevating the host and realized...he and I weren't doing parallel things. My sacrifice was joined to the one on the altar.

And it certainly helped when my toddler dropped everything she was doing, and ran over to gaze at Jesus as the bells of consecration were rung.

The fact that she pointed at Him and loudly shouted, "Mary! Mary!" is irrelevant. Baby steps...

(By the way, if you're looking for Easter basket stuffers, it isn't too late to grab a copy of one of my new books!! These two also have read aloud videos on YouTube!



To purchase the books click here.

To watch the read aloud videos with your kids:

Holy Week for Children - A Guide to the Liturgies

Take Up Your Cross (a super short version of the Stations of the Cross!!!)

Sunday, February 24, 2019

Hope for the Church

This afternoon, I was looking through old pictures on Instagram and was just filled with awe and gratitude for where God has led our family.

There's more than can ever be told here, but I look back over my own discernment and vocation story, and where I am right now and the people I am surrounded by - I couldn't have imagined this life for myself if I have tried.


I couldn't have imagined a husband like the one I have. I couldn't have imagined God leading us to the opportunity to serve the Church in the ways He has. I couldn't have imagined raising children running through the halls of a seminary, having seminarians juggle for them and Carmelite sisters handing them cookies by the handful. I couldn't have imagined the love and support we've experienced from this spiritual family of ours.


When Andrew and I (very suddenly, only six months into dating) felt an incredibly strong call to marriage, we wondered what it meant. Did God have something special in mind for us?? Years later, I now realize he did - the special, ordinariness of our vocation to marriage. Our vocation isn't flashy. Our holiness is growing through dirty diapers, night wakings, washing dishes, and wiping sticky little fingers. 

But as a bonus to the incredible vocation to marriage and parenthood, He has given us the additional opportunity to be a part of the formation of future priests. As time goes on, I feel the call to spiritual motherhood of seminarians grow stronger and stronger. 


As the recent scandal has broken in the Church, my greatest consolation has been my friendships with seminarians. These young men are entering into their vocation with eyes wide open, knowing the stigma around the priesthood in the culture. They are willingly, lovingly choosing to suffer for the Church. The recent scandal seems to have only strengthened them in their desire to lay their lives down (spiritually) for Christ's bride, the Church.



There is a hallway at the seminary that is lined with pictures of bishops who once were students there. I regularly remind my husband that he is not only helping to form future priests, but future bishops. It is certain that some of the young men we know will be one day be called to be bishops.

And do you know what? That thought fills me with more joy and hope than I can possibly say. These men are real men, men desiring to live lives of sacrifice and holiness. These are men longing for sainthood. These are men wanting to know how best they can serve the laity, and eager to listen to any stories or suggestions we have to share with them. They are undergoing an incredibly rigorous formation process, and that is only the beginning. Priesthood, in a time with fewer priests and increasing opposition to the Church, is harder than it has been in a long time in America.

But these men - these current and future priests and bishops - are men with fathers' hearts. They are the kind of men that quietly cut the meat on the plates at the children's table at a party, so their poor parents don't have to get up for the millionth time. They are the kind of men who will intentionally ring the entrance bell at Mass quieter, because they see you swaying with a sleepy baby in the vestibule. They are the kind of men who will anoint a sick pregnant woman, or offer to say Mass in her home, so she and her family can actually go to Mass together. They are the kind of men who will pray with you at the grave of your miscarried child, and text you years later on his patron saint day.

They are the kind of men who even when they have been ordained a bishop will still treat every person they meet as if they were incredibly important, and even remember to bring goldfish crackers for the children of the family when they come to dinner. 


There is a lot of pain in the Church, but I just want to tell you... don't give up hope. If the men we are friends with are any indication, there is so much hope for the future of the Church. May the Holy Spirit lead us.



Tuesday, October 9, 2018

The Grace of Enough Book Tour!!

When my lovely friend, Haley Stewart, invited me to join the online Book Tour for her new book The Grace of Enough, I said yes in a heartbeat.


When it comes to Catholic books, I am a total book snob. Having studied theology in undergrad and grad school, I have read a lot about the Catholic faith. Sometimes, I try to pick up a Catholic book, but I just feel like the author is saying stuff that I've already heard and it's not making me grow. 

You guys...this book isn't like that. 

I feel like this book came to me at just the right time, which is usually due to some nudging from the Holy Spirit. 


For the first seven years of our marriage, one or both of us was in grad school and our budget was super tight. Our two family charisms are hospitality and generosity (or, at least, those are the charisms we're trying to develop in our marriage), but despite that...I still felt a need to acquire a lot of stuff. It wasn't that I was spending a lot of money, but I would go to a rummage sale and come back with a box of stuff. I just felt like I needed so much, and because we didn't have a ton of money, I felt like, if I saw something for cheap I had to buy it (in case I needed it later). 

Other times, I would go out on Saturday mornings, after a week of taking care of itty bitty kids, and just want to feel like I accomplished something. So, I would spend $10 on a box of potentially useful stuff and momentarily feel really good about myself. Needless to say, that feeling didn't last forever. 

When we moved to our new house a couple of years ago, we got rid of a ton of stuff, but I still held on to so much. The past year or so has been a process of letting go of more...but I still felt like I could be doing more. I still felt overwhelmed by the amount of stuff we had.

I've only had Haley's book for a little while, but her message (gently given, in the context of her own family's story) was exactly what I needed to hear right now. I don't spend a ton of money on stuff, but I definitely know the feeling of satisfaction when you think you've bought the perfect thing that will make you happy forever. (I loved Haley's story about her "perfect" computer bag, and I could totally relate to it.) But I know that, too much, I cling to the temporary satisfaction that I can get from stuff.

In case you don't know Haley's story, a few years ago she and her family made a huge life change. Her husband was in a job that was draining the life out of him. They ended up discerning that they were called to do a farm internship, halfway across the country, and spend a year in a tiny apartment with three kids and a composting toilet. (So, basically, she shaved off years in purgatory.)

Their story is so beautiful and it resonated so deeply with me, because Andrew and I did the crazy thing (i.e. get married and have kids while still poor and jobless, so that Andrew could pursue his vocation as a theologian) and we, like the Stewarts, haven't looked back. Like them, we have experienced that when you trust God (even if it seems crazy to do so) there is so much peace and joy that follows. It isn't easy, but that peace makes a world of difference.



In our case, trusting in God to provide led us to a seminary - a community that has become like another family to us. 

In Haley's case, trusting in God led them to a farm - and a community that has become like another family to them. I love, love, love Haley's descriptions of the farm. I love the community she describes, and the simplicity. It reminds me so much of our life as a family. 

And that's what is so beautiful. Sin is boring, but holiness is interesting. There are only a certain number of ways to sin, but there are so, so many ways to be holy. I love to hear people's vocation's story; to hear how God has prompted them to follow His call in their own lives. Like in the stories from the lives of the saints, it never ceases to amaze me how God is at work in so many people's lives - and in such different ways. It gives me hope, and courage, to live out my own vocation. 

Reading Haley's story gives me that kind of hope and encouragement. Do crazy things for God, and you won't be disappointed, is the underlying message!



But more than just affirming things I already know, The Grace of Enough has been challenging me. Our bedroom closet has been a disaster for years. There was so much stuff I was hanging on to "just in case" I needed it down the line. But instead of using all that fabric and yarn and other various art supplies and ill-fitted clothing...it was just stressing me out. I would open the closet door and be overwhelmed by so much stuff. But, without realizing it, I was afraid to let it go.

Chapter 2 of The Grace of Enough really challenged me to reexamine why I was hanging on to all of this stuff. Then I realized - it was because I was afraid to let go of stuff that I might use (nevermind the fact that I had owned some of it for years and never used it). "Living simply doesn't mean we cannot own anything," Haley writes. "But if our possessions are owning us, if we are distracted from service and things eternal because we have too much, then we need the courage to make a change." (p.26-27)

Guys, I cleaned out that closet. I let go of so much stuff that I had been desperately hanging on to. 

And do you know what? I feel free.

I'm in the midst of an ongoing letting go of things (something that I've done before, but still need to do periodically), and I feel like this book is helping to refocus my heart. It isn't just about decluttering and being tidy. It's about being a good steward of the things that God has given me. It's about doing everything - even de-cluttering - with love. 

If you would like your own copy of this lovely little book, you can purchase it here:


Thanks for the chance to be a part of the book tour, Haley! Click here to see a list of all of the stops.

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Your Anxiety/Depression Aren't a Sign That You're Failing

I've been in a really, really rough patch with my anxiety lately. I tried to explain to my husband what it felt like by telling him to imagine that he thought that his boss was going to fire him and that he spent every day waiting for his boss to come in his office and fire him...but it never happened. Even though it never happened and was never going to happen, his heart would probably skip a beat every time he heard footsteps approaching his office, or every time one of his students turned the doorknob to come and see him.

My husband doesn't have anxiety (and he has an awesome job, so this isn't a real possibility) but the image captures what the experience of anxiety is like. It's exhausting. My nervous system feels like it's always on high alert, like danger is around every bend. Even when I know that I'm safe and everything is fine, my body doesn't seem to get the message.


Motherhood/homeschooling/work is exhausting enough without anxiety. Anxiety makes me want to just curl up in a ball and quit.

What's been hardest lately has been that I've been in a really long dry patch in my prayer life. Praying has triggered more anxiety, and my brain just wouldn't calm down in prayer. I didn't feel any peace when I was praying. And my dear Jesus, who I have often felt so close to, seemed so far away.

Was I doing something wrong?  I have a pretty consistent prayer routine, and I was faithful to it. I thought of Mother Teresa and her dryness in prayer. Surely, it wasn't a sign that there was something wrong with me? In the midst of this, i heard someone talking about a child who got stressed during a deliverance prayer and how surely that was a sign that evil was attacking their family. That may have been the case for their family, but hearing that had me worried. Was I feeling anxiety in prayer because I was an evil person in some way? 

i know that that sounds totally ridiculous, but there are a lot of people who think that anxiety and depression are a sign that someone needs to pray more, or trust God more. And i worried...what if they were right?

Then, I started reading Father Elijah. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it. Poor Fr. Elijah deals with some awful stuff, but his interior life was what struck me. It reminded me of consolations I had experienced in prayer. Although nothing like the miraculous stuff he experiences, I began remembering what a source of strength the Eucharist has been for me, throughout my life. And I decided to try to make daily visits to Jesus, even if they were short. 



The thing about Jesus is that when he wants to make you fall in love with him, he can be pretty hard to resist. On one particularly difficult day with my anxiety, I ended up just sitting with him in adoration, and even falling asleep. I felt more joy than i had felt in ages.

My anxiety didn't budge. It didn't go away. It wasn't cured.

But that's okay. Because my bouts with anxiety and depression aren't a sign that I'm doing something wrong. They're just the cross. They're just an opportunity to choose to love, even in the midst of suffering.

If you are in the midst of similar struggles, take heart. You are not alone. The Spirit and the Bride say come.