Blog - Held By His Pierced Hands

Advice to Priests

I was stunned the other day to have a good man, 25 years a priest, ask me for advice. Not with a specific situation either, just “Do you have any advice for me?” I didn’t know what to say to this priest of God, this man who speaks and the Word is made flesh, who grasps the hands of sinners to drag them back from the edge of that unscalable cliff, who leads people to Christ in a more real way than I ever will.

“Pray,” I said. “Love Christ and his Church and pray.”

But he wanted more. And I always have an opinion, even when I have no right to. So add this to the list of things I have no business giving advice on.¹

Image courtesy of Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P.

If I could ask one thing of priests, it would be this: celebrate the Sacraments like you believe that they’re real. I imagine that most of you do believe that they’re real. And I’ve been privileged to know many priests whose love of the Lord is so powerfully evident in the way they lead their people in prayer. But that’s not always the case. Imagine if you celebrated Mass completely attentive to the fact that you were about to call God down to earth. Wouldn’t it be slower, more reverent, more intense? Wouldn’t you be awestruck, holding the host in your hand? Would you really make do with a quick bow if you honestly believed—or maybe remembered is the word—that Jesus Christ was truly there? More than just doing the red and saying the black (which is a great start), what if you treated the sacred mysteries like they are sacred and mysterious?

In a sacristy in Avila, the words surrounding the crucifix on the wall say, “Priest of Jesus Christ, celebrate this Holy Mass as if it were your first Mass, your last Mass, your only Mass.” If you can’t excite the emotions your first Mass stirred up, can you try to imagine how you would say Mass if you knew you were about to meet God face to face? You are, after all.

I don’t mean to imply that all you really need is emotions—or that if you try hard enough you can manufacture pious feelings. I just mean that your people don’t need good homilies. They don’t need good administrators. They don’t need friendly guys. Those things are all nice, but what they need are pastors who are showing them what holiness looks like. They need to see you and wonder at your love of the Lord. They need to believe that it’s possible to know Christ, and you can teach them that by coming to know him better yourself.

I have some Facebook friends who are priests and will occasionally post with joy about how they love the confessional. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard a bored “Say three Hail Marys now make your act of contrition” after pouring my heart out in the confessional. And I know you’re overworked. But this is sacred: a lost soul crawling home to his Father. What if you heard confessions with the immensity of this work in mind? I know you’ve heard a thousand confessions, and I do hope mine always bores you, but pray. Oh, Father, pray for the grace to remember what it is you’re doing!

Because if you really believed that confession saved souls, that confession was a sinner kneeling at the foot of the Cross and surrendering his hammer into the pierced hands, wouldn’t you do anything to draw people there? Wouldn’t you preach on mercy? Wouldn’t you be in the confessional for hours each day? Or at least for minutes each day? Wouldn’t you offer confession more than half an hour a week? I know you have so much going on. I understand that you’re pastor and teacher and counselor and administrator, but if confession is real, nothing matters more. You have parishioners who’ve been away from the Sacrament for decades because nobody’s asked them to go. Don’t just ask: beg.

From an inspiring post on priests who have given everything for the faithful.

Baptize babies like it’s the most important day of their lives. Prepare couples for marriage like that’s how God is making them Saints. Anoint like it’s the lifeline holding people to Christ. Confirm like you’re sending soldiers into battle. Spend enough time in private prayer that your public prayer looks more like prayer and less like a formality. The more you love Christ, the more we’ll see that radiating from you. And the more we see it, the more we’ll line up to follow.

I don’t mean to criticize, just to challenge. I’m so grateful for you and for every priest. I have such respect for you and I understand the pressures and the difficulties of wearing a dozen hats and dealing with a thousand different personalities. I know that you’ve got duties that seem to keep you from the confessional and a timeline to stick to for Mass. I know that appearances aren’t everything and that the priest who seems most bored and inattentive might be in deepest contemplation. I know it’s hard to fake reverence when you’re doubting or sick or just doing it for the ten thousandth time. I know that many of you are saints in the making, offering your lives daily for those you serve. Thank you for all that you do and all that you are, for your love of the Lord that shines through everything you do.

But I also know that sometimes when you make a living challenging others to grow in holiness, nobody challenges you. I don’t speak for everyone, but from one laborer in the vineyard to another: won’t you please show us that you believe what you say? Won’t you please fight for us and worship for us and lead us? Remember the priest you wanted to be 5, 20, 50 years ago and be that man. Be John Vianney or Padre Pio or Don Bosco or Ignatius or Francis Xavier or Ambrose. Be Christ. Be you. But always be his.

My advice to you is the same advice I keep giving myself as I stumble through, halfhearted and distracted: be a saint. Nothing else matters.

Drafts waiting to be finalized include “How to Raise Kids Who Stay Catholic” and “How to Be Good in Bed.” Don’t get too excited—it’s about chastity. [↩]

This Our Exile

I’ve loved St. Damien for as long as I can remember. A Belgian priest, he was a missionary to the people of Hawaii when he volunteered to go to Molokai and minister to the lepers who had been left there to await death. When he arrived, the colony was in chaos. The patients were ripped from their families on the other islands and taken by boat to the peninsula of Kalaupapa, a small area of land bordered on three sides by the Pacific Ocean and on the fourth by sheer cliffs, including the tallest sea cliff in the world. As their ship approached the island, they were thrown into the water to swim to shore where hunger, lawlessness, and despair awaited them.

The Cliffs of Insanity have nothing on Molokai. Via Forest and Kim Starr.

Father Damien instilled order, erected dormitories, and cared for the sick; more than that, he offered hope and salvation. Ordered to keep the lepers at arm’s length to protect himself, he chose instead to live among them as a brother and eventually found himself their brother leper. He was rejected and slandered, forced to live without benefit of confession except when he shouted it to a priest on a passing ship. He died slowly and painfully, rejoicing to die like Christ as he had lived like Christ.

You're even allowed to make phone calls from the plane--assuming you have decent coverage, which I never do. Down with Virgin Wireless! — You’re even allowed to make phone calls from the plane–assuming you have decent coverage, which I never do. Down with Virgin Wireless!

Because I lead a charmed life, this week I got to go to Kalaupapa. I boarded the tiniest plane I’ve ever seen (9 passengers) and headed to the island where St. Damien and St. Marianne Cope gave their lives to love the poorest of the poor.

Coming from the mainland, when you land in Kalaupapa, it’s hard (for a minute) to feel sorry for the lepers. This is paradise, after all. How can you complain when you’re surrounded by such beauty? Sure, you’re imprisoned, but it’s not exactly Siberia.

A perfect image of what Molokai is: a graveyard in paradise.

After I got over rejoicing in how far I am from the polar vortex I escaped, though, I began to think. It’s beautiful, yes. Stunningly so. But all there was to do was wait for death. These exiles knew they would never see their families again; palm trees and bright blue waves don’t make up for the anguish of separation. On clear days, they could see their home island of Oahu in the distance: close enough to see but impossibly far. In all the good things they experienced, there was a poverty, even after St. Damien brought order and hope. No matter how good things got, there was an unfulfilled ache underlying every moment. They wanted to go home.

I’ve been feeling this exile more strongly lately. I’ve been longing for home. As beautiful as these islands are, as delicious as the fresh pineapple and kalua pork are, as kind and loving as the people I’ve met are, I want to go home. Not to my legal address, but Home. This life of ours is an exile, a season far from the one we love with only hints of the land we were made for. This world may be magnificent, but the foretaste of joy often strikes me as insipid, the glimpses of beauty washed out. We were made for so much more and when I stand on the shores of Molokai, I feel the yearning of the mothers, the children, the friends who would have traded paradise in an instant for a lifetime at home.

Impossibly far, and yet still we hope. — Impossibly far, and yet close enough to hope.

A sweet priest who is kinder to me than I deserve recently introduced me to his congregation as a hobo, but specified that “hobo” really stands for “homeward bound.” I guess that means we’re all hobos, all of us pilgrims working our way through a beautiful land of exile. It’s easy to mistake the way stations for the destination, easy to fill our hearts with promise and lose our hunger for the Promised. When our prison is paradise, we sometimes stop yearning to be free. We settle for what this world has to offer and forget that this world is not our home.

Don’t let satisfaction lull you into complacency, nor difficulty drag you into despair. When all is well, remember that you were made for so much more than the small pleasures and even the deep joys of this life. When life is hard, remember that this is your exile; your homeland awaits. Memento mori, my friends, and rejoice.

They had a stamp you could put in your passport! So now my passport certifies that I've been to Israel and Kalaupapa. Apparently, that's it. — They had a stamp you could put in your passport! So now my passport certifies that I’ve been to Israel and Kalaupapa. Apparently, that’s it.

P.S. If you want to boost my ego (not that I need it), you can head over to Bonnie’s and vote for me for the Sheenazing Blogger Awards! And when you’re not voting for me, be sure to vote for my sister: A Blog for My Mom. If you don’t read her blog yet, start. It is literally my favorite thing on the internet.

Judged on Love Alone

For all I’m willing to make fun of the way the modern world uses 1 Corinthians 13 as a glorification of romantic love, I’m the first to admit that it’s a powerful passage. It’s one of those where you don’t even mind that you get the same homily on it every time. You know the one: “Replace ‘love’ with ‘a Christian.’ ‘A Christian is patient, a Christian is kind.'” Much like the Prodigal Father homily on the Prodigal Son Gospel or the “What kind of soil are you?” homily on the Parable of the Sower, it bears repeating. Paul’s description of love is a template of our lives. So it stands to reason that it can function as a pretty good examination of conscience, too.

Sin is, after all, a failure to love. We love ourselves more than God or more than our neighbors. We use people or ignore the call of Christ. So I think 1 Corinthians 13 is the perfect mirror to hold up before our lives, especially those of us who are fairly decent people. When we turn from the list of grave sins that we generally manage to avoid to this chapter on love, we begin to see just how far we have to go.

1 Corinthians 13: An Examination of Conscience

If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.

Are you talking just to hear yourself speak or are you really listening? Because your “wisdom” means nothing when it’s not meeting people in their suffering. All the brilliant words you’ve so carefully cultivated are platitudes and arrogance in the face of the anonymous souls you inflict them on, not caring to hear their story.

And if I have the gift of prophesy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing.

It doesn’t matter how much you know about Jesus if you speak of him only to prove people wrong and not to draw their hearts closer to him. Faith is not a weapon, it’s a gift. Are you evangelizing to share your joy or to win? If you’re not preaching from a heart that overflows with love for Christ and his lost sheep, shut your mouth and pray for humility.

If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.

How often do you perform good deeds without advertising them? Tell yourself you’re just trying to encourage others to join in, if you must, but ask yourself: are you serving unique, unrepeatable children of God destined for eternal greatness? Or just congratulating yourself on the number of bodies you moved through the line? Selfish service is better than nothing, but not much.

Love is patient,

Not just waiting-for-you-to-be-less-awful patient but loving-you-just-as-you-are patient. It’s not a feeling. You can’t make yourself stop being impatient. But you can sure as heck throw your frustrations over your shoulder and carry them up to Calvary. Do you view people as problems to be solved (or avoided) or as children of God? Choose to live like the other is not an obstacle but the delight of Love himself.

love is kind.

Love isn’t nice, it’s kind. It corrects when necessary. It doesn’t value the love above the beloved. One who loves well takes risks to do what’s best for the other. How many times have you chosen cowardice rather than making things uncomfortable and possibly saving a life–or a soul?

It is not jealous,

Jealousy isn’t just a matter of wanting what the other person has but of resenting him for having it. When you get up to nurse the baby, do you want to smack your husband who gets to sleep on through? Are you bitter about your brother’s new job? Do you try to keep your friends apart for fear they’ll like each other more than they like you? Love seeks what’s best for the beloved–even when it is directly bad for you.

[love] is not pompous, it is not inflated,

Love just isn’t about you. Are you really interested in the girl you’re talking to before class or are you waiting for someone else to come along? Do you spend time with that guy because you’re trying to be a true friend or because you’re doing him a favor with your friendship? A Christian desire to be kind can easily be corrupted into a self-congratulatory kind of pity for losers. Don’t end the relationship–pray for your heart to be purified.

it is not rude,

Do you treat people not as they want to be treated but as they deserve to be treated? Just because a friend is cool with racist or sexual jokes doesn’t mean you have the right to act that way–love treats others with the dignity they deserve, even if they aren’t aware of it.

it does not seek its own interests,

You were made to give yourself to others. Human love means that we receive too, but never that we take. Where is the selfishness in the way you relate to your wife, your parents, your friends? How often do you treat cashiers and wait staff like they’re just there to serve you? That might be their job, but they’re people before they’re busboys and they deserve your respect and courtesy. You’ll be amazed at the graces that flow into your life when you start treating people–all people–like people.

it is not quick-tempered,

More than anything, my sin comes from my quick temper and my quick temper comes from a refusal to recognize other people’s perspectives. The more I love people–the more I see them as people and not as means to my end–the less likely I am to roll my eyes or get irrationally angry.

it does not brood over injury,

You don’t get to hold grudges. Jesus made that perfectly clear. “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” remember? And while you might not be able to feel all better, forgiveness is a choice. You choose not to resent someone. And you choose not to replay your suffering in your mind, filled with “righteous” anger. Do you let love win or anger, suffering, fear, and sin?

it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.

I always found this rather odd until I realized how often I do it. I take a certain vindictive pleasure in the bad choices people make when if they had only listened to me, they’d be perfect just like I am! Do you weep for sinners and long for their joy and peace, or do you feel smug when you see how much better off you are without them? Love continues even if a relationship might need to end.

It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Think of all the abuse you’d tolerate from your baby–it’s infinite, isn’t it? There is nothing she can do to make you stop loving her, is there? We know how to love our little children this way, some of us: without limits. It fades once we start expecting things of them in return. Don’t. Love every person like they deserve it. Choose to believe that they’re good deep down.¹ Trust that God will bring them the healing they need to be who they were made to be. Never let your obsession with yourself get in the way of loving without restraint. Even when you’re the one you’re trying to love.

Love never fails.

You will fail. You will be angry and selfish and judgmental and impatient. Our whole lives are an attempt to learn to love. But Love never fails. He never gives up on you and he will not allow you to give up on yourself. Take some time with this chapter and then take yourself to the foot of the cross, to the seat of mercy: the confessional. Ask Love to teach you to love. Pray that your love would be his love.

Love is not a feeling, my friends, it is a choice. It is willing the good of the other, choosing to treat him as Christ would. One of the most powerful statements I’ve ever heard was attributed to St. Ignatius Loyola:² of every man we meet, we ought to say, “Jesus died for this man.” That’s what 1 Corinthians 13 is calling us to: a recognition when we encounter each person that Jesus Christ, God made man, like us in all things but sin, thought this person was worth dying for. Who are we to do less?

This doesn’t mean enduring an emotionally or physically abusive relationship. The call to love means loving and protecting ourselves as well. Don’t let the demands of the Cross convince you to allow others to mistreat you. [↩]
Googling it only really gets me my website where I’ve quoted it before, so who knows? [↩]

13 from 2013

It’s not often that I get to link up with other bloggers, but I think y’all might be interested in seeing some of what I was doing in 2013. So I’m joining Dwija et al. for her 2013 in 13 photos linkup. Enjoy!

It was a year of weather extremes, from Hawaii in January:

to Indiana in February:

And Kansas in April, and Colorado in May, and Montana in June.... — And Kansas in April, and Colorado in May, and Montana in June….

I spent a lot of time on the road:

and went pretty far off the beaten path:

Kansas in April. Who knew dirt road actually meant dirt road? And that it turned into mud in the rain? In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm kind of a city girl. — Who knew dirt road actually meant dirt road? And that it turned into mud in the rain? In case you hadn’t figured it out, I’m kind of a city girl. Kansas in April.

I met up with tons of old friends. Really, I saw just about everyone I love in my 47 state tour:¹

High school youth group friends (and offspring), Colorado in April. — High school youth group friends (and offspring). Colorado in April.

and met some all stars:

Yeah, I stayed down the hall from him. Got his blessing. It's okay to be a little bit jealous. — Yeah, I stayed down the hall from him. Got his blessing. It’s okay to be a little bit jealous. North Dakota in June.

I spoke a lot–in 25 states–in venues both formal:

and less so:

I learned to dance:

got another godson:

and turned 30:

That's birthday quiche with candles in it. Nebraska in September. — That’s birthday quiche with candles in it. Nebraska in September.

I had some unexpected heartbreak:

With my late father on the day of my baptism. California in December 1983. — With my late father on the day of my baptism. California in December, 1983.

but had a lot of little ones to snuggle me through it:

Yes, this is cheating, but I didn't have a picture of me with all five. All pictures copyright 2013, Miriam A. Kilmer. — Yes, this is cheating, but I didn’t have a picture of me with all five. All pictures copyright 2013, Miriam A. Kilmer. December in Virginia.

Thanks for coming with me this year, friends. Here’s to grace and joy in 2014!

Alaska, New Mexico, and Arkansas. I was in Arkansas in 2012, though. [↩]

15 Ways to Keep Christmas in Christmas

A very well-meaning person wished me a “belated merry Christmas” the other day. Now, I hate to be pedantic¹ but there’s nothing belated about Christmas wishes right now unless you’re talking about last Christmas. I’m sure you all know this, but Christmas has only just begun. In fact, it’s still Christmas day until tomorrow night!² The octave of Christmas is an eight-day celebration of Christmas day, complete with the Gloria at every Mass and the same psalms in the Office for over a week. Then the season continues past Epiphany (even the Twelve Days of Christmas aren’t enough for us Catholic party animals) until Ordinary Time begins with the Baptism of the Lord (this year, January 12). If you like, you can even go old-school and stretch it to February 2nd for the more traditional Christmas feasting. That gives you at least another week and a half of Christmas, friends, and as much as another month–let’s live it up!

But the Christmas carols went off the air before the 25th was even over. Christmas merchandise is 70% off by now and if you tell people you’re taking a Christmas vacation until mid-January, they’ll think you’re nuts. How do we keep Christmas alive in this world of post-12/25 Scrooges? As always, I’ve got a few thoughts.

Wish everyone a merry Christmas. When they (inevitably) tell you you’re “a little late,” just say cheerfully, “Actually, Christmas doesn’t end until January 12th this year!” Who knows? Maybe it’ll give you an opportunity to witness a little.
Especially keep your nativity sets up! How beautiful is this one?

Keep your Christmas decorations up. When people (inevitably) point out that you’re “a little behind”…see above.
Celebrate Epiphany with a party and king cake and crowns and a rousing rendition of We Three Kings. “Little Christmas” should be a big deal.
Spend some time at a nursing home or helping at a soup kitchen–anywhere they had tons of volunteers last week but are wanting for help after the holiday glow has worn off. That made-for-TV “Spirit of Christmas” you’ve been hearing so much about is, in fact, the Holy Spirit and he prompts you to do works of mercy all year round.
Keep listening to Christmas music. But don’t just listen to it–really meditate on the power of some of those hymns. Try “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear” (especially verses 4 and 5), “What Child is This” (verse 2 breaks me every time) and “O Little Town of Bethlehem” for starters.
Read a book about the Christ Child, the Blessed Mother, or St. Joseph. Pope Benedict’s Jesus of Nazareth: The Infancy Narratives is a great choice while Caryll Houselander’s The Reed of God is much my favorite about the Blessed Mother.
Buy all the discounted white-chocolate-peppermint candy. Eat “birthday cake” after (or for) every meal. Go out to dinner in your tacky Christmas sweater. Feast!
Send out your Christmas cards really, really late. Point out in your letter that your “late” cards are liturgically appropriate while all those overachievers are practically heretics–Christmas cards in Advent? I mean, really!³
Ask parents of young children if you can bring dinner over one evening and/or watch the kids while they go out. If you’re really brave, offer to take the kids out during the day so the parents can nap. Think of it as a favor to the Holy Family.
Keep the Mass in Christmas–add an extra Mass each week to wish Jesus a happy birthday. While you’re at it, throw in a rosary (joyful mysteries, of course) to honor Mary and meditate more on the Incarnation.
Volunteer with an organization that serves homeless families or immigrants. Remember that from the slaughter of the innocents until his return to Nazareth, Jesus was a homeless refugee.
Pretty much all we do around here is pretend to be Jesus and Mary (or the dolphins in the “Bethwehem water!”) or play with nativity sets.

Spend time playing with your children and their nativity sets. Today, I watched my 2-year-old niece put St. Joseph down for a nap. Then the angel came and woke him: “Joseph! Joseph! FWEEE!!!”⁴ My nephew keeps gasping and wishing various babies Jesus a breathless “Happy birthday!” These kids know it’s Christmas.
Use social media to share some quotations from Saints and popes on Christmas and the Christ Child. If you’re at a loss, try the Office of Readings–it’s full of them. Or visit Christina over at The Evangelista for beautiful images and meditations.
Have family prayer time that focuses on the infant Jesus. Kneel before your nativity set, let your children hold the baby Jesus, sing Christmas carols, read parts of the Christmas story and discuss how you would have felt in different people’s positions, and find prayers to the Holy Infant. The longer you celebrate Christ and Christmas, the more your child’s happy memories of childhood will be tied to a joyful, lived faith.
Host a Christmas party on January 11th. Seriously, I would be your best friend.

How else will you keep the Christmas in Christmas this season? I’d love to hear your season-long traditions!

Happy New Year, friends, but mostly MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

This is patently untrue. I am a hopeless pedant. [↩]
When I grow up, I want to be such a big deal that the world celebrates my birthday for eight days every year. [↩]
I’m kidding. Don’t be a jerk. [↩]
That’s “flee” for those of you who don’t speak toddler. [↩]

On Four-Year-Olds and Pharisees

My four-year-old nephew loves to pray. Seriously, when I talk about that kid, I feel like I’m reciting one of those ridiculous medieval hagiographies that tell you how the blessed child refused the breast on fast days. But John Paul is a little bit of a robot and his lifelong obsession has been all things Catholic. I’m more than a little proud, of course, but also rather bewildered when he wants to pray all the time. On Sunday, he went to Mass, prayed morning prayer, read the Bible all during his “nap,” prayed a whole rosary, prayed evening prayer and the office of readings, did his Saint Andrew novena, and his Magnifikid morning and evening prayer. I’m pretty sure he spent more time praying than I did.

On a given day, it’s not unusual to hear the following lines out of this strange kid’s mouth:

Just a little light reading before bed.

“No, don’t just pray one decade. We want to do ALL the mysteries!”
“Oh, I’m Jesus! I’m walking on water! Now I’m TURNING WATER INTO WINE!!”
“For my naptime story, I would like Isaiah chapter 41.”
“May I please take the Bible to bed with me?”
“No, Mom, don’t turn off the light! Wait till I finish Proverbs!!”
“No, Cecilia, you can’t be Ruth! We’re playing Pentateuch! Ruth is a Historical Book!!!“
“My favorite confirmation Saint is Saint Caius. He was a pope and martyr.”
“Oh, could we please play the martyrdom of St. Ignatius of Antioch? And then we can play my canonization party!”

Really. All in one day. He doesn’t sound real.

So you’d think, given how much he prays, that he’d be less…well…awful. I mean, I know he’s four and life is just hard. I don’t fault him for tantrums over toys and television. What gets me are the tantrums he throws while praying. Yes, while praying. Not, of course, because he doesn’t want to pray. Because he wants to do it his way.

This week, we’ve prayed morning and evening prayer together every day. His idea. And while he’s been praying the Office with me since he was only just three (I’m telling you, he’s not real!), suddenly he can’t do it right. No, it’s not that he can’t do it right. He just won’t.

"We're traveling to Bethlehem!" Riding a leopard. Pregnant with a baby doll. Maybe that's from the Gospel of Thomas. Note John Paul's outfit: a purple "dalmatic" which was our compromise when he screamed and screamed "I want a chasuble now! I want a chasuble today!!" — “We’re traveling to Bethlehem!” Riding a leopard. Pregnant with a baby doll. Maybe that’s from the Gospel of Thomas. Note John Paul’s outfit: a purple “dalmatic” which was our compromise when he screamed and screamed “I want a chasuble now! I want a chasuble today!!”

He insists on praying the Magnificat during morning prayer or he screams “NOOOO” when I read my part (because he wanted to read it) or he starts whining about praying daytime prayer before we’re halfway through morning prayer. I’m mostly happy to ignore or to allow just to keep the peace, but he doesn’t want to keep the peace. So he keeps pushing and pushing–grabbing the breviary, starting a hymn in the middle of a canticle, insisting on starting the whole psalm over so he can be side A–until he feels justified in throwing a tantrum. While praying. Over whether or not to read the italicized text or how to pronounce a word.

No joke, I’ve had to interrupt our prayer to talk about not screaming and punching during the Office every day this week. The other day he kicked me (softly, because the sweet thing is gentle even when he’s enraged) for having the audacity to finish the concluding prayer. Last night he head-butted me in the face (again, so gently it wasn’t even uncomfortable, but it’s the intention we’re concerned about) because I folded the novena pamphlet to read the back instead of turning the whole thing around.

Basically, despite all this time in prayer, he’s obsessed with himself and getting his own way. But you know what? He has an excuse. He’s four.

What’s my excuse?

Because I do the same thing. I do good things but I’m so consumed with doing them the “right” way that I end up doing more harm than good. I get so frustrated at liturgical abuses that I make the Mass about me–my desires for good liturgy–instead of about Christ. I’m so intent on orthodoxy that I forget compassion. I turn everything into evidence to support my ideology or an opportunity to feel persecuted. I do acts of charity and vilify those who work with other populations. I do good for my own ends–either to be impressive in the eyes of men or just to show off to God.¹

James Tissot: The Pharisee and the Publican

You see, I’m a Pharisee. The problem with the Pharisees wasn’t that they wanted to follow the rules. Their problem (okay, one of their many) was that they had to be right. They had to have their own way–they were fine with it being the Law’s way as long as they had chosen it. And anyone who wasn’t doing things their way was wrong. And bad. And deserved to be crucified.

There wasn’t anything wrong with following the Law. God gave it to them, after all. And there’s nothing wrong with living the liturgical year or admonishing sinners or spreading the Gospel or feeding the hungry. But if you’re anything like me, it’s not always about love of God and love of neighbor. Often it’s just self-love–if you can call it love at all.

Pope Francis described one manifestation of this pride motivating good works in his recent apostolic exhortation:

“A supposed soundness of doctrine or discipline leads instead to a narcissistic and authoritarian elitism, whereby instead of evangelizing, one analyzes and classifies others, and instead of opening the door to grace, one exhausts his or her energies in inspecting and verifying.” (Evangelii Gaudium 94)

Our desire to be faithful can be distorted–as can our desires for social justice, transcendent liturgy, compassion, and all things true, good, and beautiful–when we, like the Pharisees, act out of self-love instead of love of God.

Satan’s a clever one. And when you start doing good, he can work with that. He can take your good intentions and twist them so you start resenting people who interrupt your prayer or judging people who serve differently. I think this is particularly dangerous during Advent–we start out buying gifts to please people and end up getting mad at people in the mall or the people we’re shopping for or the whole internet because things aren’t going the way we want them to. We decide to have a quiet, prayerful Advent and want to smack the sweet carolers we pass on the street corner. We go to confession so we can feel superior. We mean so well but it’s so easy to get caught up in ourselves and forget love of God and love of neighbor: the reason for the season, yes, but also the reason for everything.

God saw this in our little fallen hearts, this self-obsession, and knew that redemption alone wouldn’t be enough. Even brought back to him, we would still be so tempted to curve in on ourselves, so painfully inclined to make even selfless acts selfish. So he came down to show us what humanity was made to look like. He became man in an act of complete selflessness. The world actually does revolve around him and yet he lived as though he was nothing.

Via Maria Pureza Escano. — St. Anne and the Young Mary, by Maria Pureza Escano.

This humility begins at the Annunciation: the God whom heaven and earth adore chose to be conceived under shadow of scandal, most likely rejected by friends and family before he was even born. He was laid in a feed trough, worshiped by outcasts, and chased into exile. Each moment was a gift, each instance of pain or persecution accepted purely out of love.

Jesus didn’t use people. He didn’t heal them only to make a point–it was always about them. His conversations teach us something, yes, but they spoke far more deeply to the hearts of those he encountered. The one man in all of history who deserved to be wrapped up in himself quite simply wasn’t. When he spoke about himself–he who is the meaning of life–he was always leading us back to the Father, giving himself in love.

The reason the Gospels are so compelling even to those who don’t believe in the God they describe is that Jesus lived as we were made to: his entire life was about others. All the healings and the preaching and even the resurrection would have meant nothing if they hadn’t been selfless. If Jesus had preached to gain fame or worked miracles to demonstrate his superiority, he would have been a sham and a failure.²

Are you?

It’s a harsh question, I know. I ask it because I’m asking myself. How many of my “good works” are done out of honest love of God and man and how many are done out of pride or veiled selfishness?

John Paul is a fantastic kid, but his piety doesn’t necessarily correlate to holiness.³ I wonder how many of us are living lives of empty piety or charity. Oh, it’s better than giving up and embracing our baser inclinations. But is it everything the Lord is asking of us, this God who desires obedience rather than sacrifice? Is it really his will or have we canonized our own desires?

This nativity scene at Franciscan University has a cross as its focal point. It's all one mystery. — This nativity scene at Franciscan has a cross as its focal point. It’s all one mystery.

We don’t worship a God who merely loves. We worship a God who is love. God in his very essence is self-gift and while that’s supremely true in the dance of love that is the Trinity, it’s nowhere more obvious than in the Incarnation, the ultimate act of love that encompasses all the discomfort and tedium and ignominy and rejection and failure and suffering and death that God willingly embraced for us. Our God gave himself in love every moment of every day–and continues to do so in the Eucharist–that we might be strengthened to do the same.

So can I issue a challenge in the midst of all your shopping and creating and praying and practicing? Could you take a minute to ask yourself why you’re doing what you’re doing? Are you writing or decorating or speaking out of a desire to be more like that fragile God in swaddling clothes? If not, don’t quit necessarily. Just recognize it, repent, and ask for the grace to love. God became weak–there’s no shame in weakness. But a failure to love: that’s true failure.

If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing. (1 Cor 13:1-3)

15 years ago I did a minor good deed and didn’t tell anyone about it. I’m still proud of myself for that. [↩]
And not God…. [↩]
It doesn’t need to. He’s awesome. I’m just making a point. [↩]

Recycling My Way Through Advent

I’m pretty much just keeping my head above water this Advent. I mean, emotionally I’m doing really well, and I may even write about why one of these days. (Long story short: 1 Corinthians 15:55) And I’m so grateful for all the support and especially the prayers y’all have been pouring my way. But when you add all the funeral planning and helping people process to traveling and speaking and then OH WAIT it’s almost Christmas better crochet all the presents—well, y’all aren’t gonna get a lot of blogging this Advent. But I did a lot last year, when many of you weren’t yet reading, so I thought maybe I’d point you over that way.

If you’re stressing about not chanting enough Latin or owning enough Nativity sets or cross-stitching your own Jesse Tree ornaments, here’s a reassurance: you’re doing it right.

If you haven’t yet bought all your Christmas presents (I’ve never yet bought all my presents before Christmas itself, let alone ten days out) and you’re looking for inspiration, I’ve got some recommendations for you:

Here are my favorite children’s books–Christian and secular. Or check out my Pinterest board of gifts for my (young) Godchildren.
Christian novels don’t get the greatest rap these days–here are some that should.
If you know a budding apologist, these are the books I think every one should read.
Finally, my favorite books to help you grow in your prayer life.

Last year, I decided that on top of baby-wrangling and crocheting presents for everybody at the last minute, I should also write a reflection on each of the great Advent antiphons. It was a great exercise but it’s definitely not happening this year, so if you want to meditate on the antiphon each day, click back through to last year’s:

December 17: O Wisdom
December 18: O Sacred Lord of Ancient Israel
December 19: O Flower of Jesse’s Stem
December 20: O Key of David
December 21: O Radiant Dawn
December 22: O King of All the Nations
December 23: O Emmanuel

I hope your Advent is filled with silence and longing and undeserved joy. I hope you recognize your sin and the God who would stop at nothing to save you from it. I hope you run to the confessional and rest in the promise of Isaiah and listen to the deep theology in the Christmas hymns. Skip the presents and the baking if that’s what it takes–tell your family to blame me. Prepare for the Christ Child–and then celebrate till at least Epiphany. If it’s worth a month of preparation, it deserves at least two weeks of celebration, right? Happy Advent, friends. Be holy.

A Daddy’s Love

By most measures, my father was a failure. He married far too young and had too many children. He never made enough money to support his family. For much of his life, he didn’t work at all. He collected diseases and disorders (real and imagined) in almost as great numbers as his ubiquitous action figures. And then, without fanfare, he up and died. At 55. Not much to write home about.

With his firstborn--clearly the most perfect baby the world had ever seen. — With my brother, his firstborn. He wrote us in an email once, “I was unprepared for how very much I love you.”

But, oh, my Daddy loved me. He loved me and my mother and my siblings so well and so hard that in so many ways his love almost defines us. He didn’t just tell us we were wonderful–he honestly believed, with everything he was, that we were the five most incredible people ever to walk the face of the planet. He bought my mother skimpy outfits in the hopes she’d wear them around town because he knew she was super hot and–apparently–wanted everyone else to know, too. He told my awkward preteen older brother that every girl he ever saw had the hots for him. He wrote me email after email just telling me (for no particular reason) that he loved me and was so proud of me. He thought my sister was the most talented singer, the most talented soccer player, the most amusing young woman there had ever been–with the exception of me and my mother, with whom she was tied. And just try to convince him that my little brother wasn’t the best-looking kid at his confirmation (to which he wore my father’s brown tweed bell-bottom wedding suit). He would have none of it.

He saw what was good in us and, whatever his flaws, he loved us so desperately that we began to believe him. Any time I talk to women about beauty, I tell them how deeply my father loved me. Any time I talk to men about being protectors, I tell them to be like my daddy. Because even at my worst, even when I was absolutely convinced that I was fat and ugly and completely unlovable, I knew that my daddy loved me. And I knew that if he loved me, maybe somebody else could. Even when everything in me and everything around me was telling me that I was worthless, I couldn’t quite believe it. My daddy, after all, was completely enamored of me. Here’s part of a poem he wrote me for my 24th birthday:

you have always
made
the sun
seem boring
floating about

in the radiant
beauty
that is you

It took years for me to begin to believe that maybe he was right–that maybe there was something special about me. It took Christ, really. But when I began to read how deeply Christ loved me, I accepted it, because I’d felt that love before. When I fell at my knees at the foot of the cross, confessing my sins against one who’d loved me so deeply, his forgiveness felt familiar. My daddy forgave me the same way–completely and gladly, as though my sin had been entirely washed away.

He must have been remarkable if I was prompted (out of nowhere) to send him this a few years back.

When I heard about a Father who loved me, I accepted it without question. Of course my Father loved me–that’s what fathers do. It was years before I realized what a gift that was, years before I understood that so many people struggle their whole lives to accept the love of the Father because of the wounds they hold from their earthly fathers. My father wasn’t perfect, but he never failed in the one thing that mattered most: love.

A family picture with all of us...up till now, anyway. You can see from his expression that he wasn't well. — A family picture with all of us…up till now, anyway. You can see from his face that he wasn’t well.

Eighteen years ago, my father got sick. Mentally, emotionally, physically. He withdrew from almost everything. He stopped doing anything around the house. He stopped even leaving the house. He missed almost every concert and play I had in high school. He made life really hard for us and I was so angry at him. But even then, even when he couldn’t always act like he loved me, I never once questioned his love. Because it was so obvious in everything he did. Because the only thing that pulled him out of himself was us. Because when I search for “Figglety” (his inscrutable nickname for me) in my email, I find dozens of random emails in which he just tells me–unprompted by any discernible cause–that he loves me and is proud of me. Whatever his flaws, he loved me.

My daddy taught me that I was worthy of love. He taught me how to accept love. And he gave me a model of how to love. If I love one person half as well as he loved us, I’ll count it a life well lived.

What kind of man inspires a look like that on the face of his wife of 26 (now 24) years? The last thing my mother said about my father on Facebook: "You think your daddy and I are boring. You are completely uninspired by our proposal that wasn't, not really. You used to think we were dumb because "our song" is Mozart's 41st. But how can a man be boring when he promises his life to you? No, Jonathan, you're never boring—except when you are, and we're both happy about that!" — What kind of man inspires a look like that on the face of his wife of 26 (now 34) years?

The last thing my mother said about my father on Facebook was this: “You [kids] think your daddy and I are boring. You are completely uninspired by our proposal that wasn’t, not really. You used to think we were dumb because “our song” is Mozart’s 41st. But how can a man be boring when he promises his life to you? No, Jonathan, you’re never boring—except when you are, and we’re both happy about that!” After 34 years of marriage–a hard marriage that many would have said she had every right to get out of–he was still completely hers, as madly in love with her as on the day they married.

I haven't mentioned how silly he was. I'm sure this ridiculous picture was his idea. — I haven’t mentioned how silly he was. I’m sure this ridiculous picture was his idea.

He was a difficult man to live with but until the day I die I will be grateful for the daddy he was. By many accounts, he was a failure. But if we forget the “accomplishments” of his life and look at the meaning of his life–a wife and four children who walked every day of their lives in the knowledge that they were deeply and unconditionally loved–it’s hard not to stand in wonder at a broken man who never wanted to be anything more than Daddy.

Of course, I’m a little heartbroken. Death hurts. But it hurts because it’s wrong, not because it’s bad. We weren’t made to die. We weren’t made to be separated. And I miss my Daddy. But I’d been missing him, in a sense, for 18 years. And now–finally–he’s the man he used to be again, free from everything that hurt and twisted him. He’s whole and healed and joyful. And really, I’m just so thankful for God’s timing in this. He’d just recently returned to the Sacraments and I keep finding myself on my knees before the Blessed Sacrament saying over and over again, “I’m so grateful, I’m so grateful.” I’m so, so thankful that he went now and not six months ago. To die in a state of grace: what more could you ask?

Timmy had just thrown a ball which bounced off my mother's head and into our dog's mouth. It was epic. — Timmy had just thrown a ball which bounced off my mother’s head and into our dog’s mouth. It was epic. Notice how we’re all looking at the camera. My daddy is looking at us.

My father loved the Lord so much. He was hungry for heaven and had been for years. He was living a Sacramental life–and oh, thank God for that–and I’m not afraid for him. Really, I’m so glad for him. He had been in so much pain for so long and now he’s free and home or heading there. The last email I sent him was terse and rather patronizing and I tried to feel guilty about it but then I remembered–in the communion of saints, we are still together. So I told him I was sorry and reminded him how much I love him and he heard and now all that’s left is joy in who he was and joy in who he’s becoming and hope for when we meet again.

Daddy Mary Claire — Grandaddy with his youngest grandbaby. He’s absolutely captivated by her. She’s absolutely captivated by his beard.

Would y’all take a minute to pray for my father (Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer) and for my family? If you want to get to know him a little better, my sister wrote a beautiful tribute here and his sister (one of many) tells some great stories about his childhood here. The funeral will be Saturday, December 7, at 2pm at St. Mark Catholic Church in Vienna, VA.

O Lord, support us all the day long of this troublous life,
until the shadows lengthen,
and the evening comes,
and the busy world is hushed,
the fever of life is over,
and our work done.
Then, Lord, in your mercy,
grant us safe lodging,
a holy rest,
and peace at the last;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
-Bl. John Henry Newman

Advent Boot Camp: A Spiritual Workout Plan

“It is not particularly difficult to find thousands who will spend two or three hours a day exercising, but if you ask them to bend their knees to God for five minutes of prayer, they protest that it is too long.”-Fulton Sheen

When I first came to know Christ, I was as eager as any other woman in love. I was going to read the whole Bible, I decided, and the Catechism. I was going to go to daily Mass once a month¹ and watch Touched by an Angel. Clearly I was all in.

On top of that impressive list, I was also going to do something that I felt was almost saintly: I was going to pray for 10 minutes a day. To that point in my life, I’d prayed very little. In the few previous years, you could probably add up all my prayer time and not get ten minutes. So ten minutes was a pretty good goal.

The trouble was, I had no idea how to pray. So I collected a litany of prayers and maybe asked for some stuff. If you had asked me at the time to spend an hour with Jesus, I might have wondered if you were on drugs. A whole hour? I would have had no idea what to do.

In fact, it wasn’t until twelve years later–when I entered the convent–that I realized that regular silent prayer was an essential component of the Christian life. I’d been praying in all kinds of ways, but I only sat still with the Lord when I had something to say. It’s hard to grow in a relationship when you only talk to a person every once in a while when you feel like it. And when I finally started praying in silence, it was hard. I had no attention span. None. I would literally pray for 3 of my intended 30 minutes and check my watch.

You may be in the same boat. Maybe you try to spend time in adoration but you just get antsy–or bored out of your mind–and leave. If you’ve got the discipline to stick it out, that’s great. But some of us need a little more direction. So I put together a spiritual plan for those of you who want to step up your prayer game this Advent but aren’t quite sure how to.

This “Advent Boot Camp” is a guideline, not a foolproof plan. Feel free to substitute anything. What’s essential is that you’re spending time in silent prayer–not just prayer but silent prayer–and that you’re easing into it.

Each day’s prayer starts with a 5 minute warmup. It’s hard just to snap from all the noise of the world into prayer, so take some time to slow down, talk to the Lord about what’s weighing on you, and get quiet. Then see what God has to say to you through his Word, his Saints, and the prayers of his Church. Finally, spend some good time in silence, either processing what you’ve read, talking to God, or trying to be still in his presence. If your prayer life has consisted solely of grace before meals and Mass on Sunday, this might be tough. But it will get easier. And what better time to seek silence than in the mad bustle leading up to Christmas?

Week 1: Begin each day with 5 minutes of prayer, make one chapel visit

Day 1: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 40; 5 minutes silence
Day 2: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 9:1-6; one decade of the rosary, 5 minutes silence
Day 3: 5 minute warmup; the Office of Readings²; 5 minutes silence
Day 4: 5 minute warmup; Catechism 522-526; one decade of the rosary; 5 minutes silence
Day 5: 5 minute warmup; Luke 1:26-38; 10 minutes silence
Day 6: 5 minute warmup; Chaplet of Divine Mercy; 5 minutes silence
Day 7: 15 minutes of prayer: your choice

Week 2: Begin and end each day with 5 minutes of prayer, attend one extra Mass

Day 8: 5 minute warmup; reading from St. Bernard of Clairvaux; 10 minutes silence
Day 9: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 11; two decades of the rosary; 5 minutes silence
Day 10: 5 minute warmup; Luke 2:1-21; one decade of the rosary; 10 minutes silence
Day 11: 20 minutes of prayer: your choice
Day 12: 5 minute warmup; the Office of Readings; 10 minutes silence
Day 13: 5 minute warmup; Stations of the Cross
Day 14: 5 minute warmup; “In the Bleak Midwinter”; 1 John 4; 10 minutes silence

Week 3: Begin and end each day with 5 minutes of prayer, attend two extra Masses

Day 15: 5 minute warmup; John 1:1-18; reading from St. Gregory Nazianzen; 10 minutes silence
Day 16: 25 minutes of prayer: your choice
Day 17: 5 minute warmup; “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”; 15 minutes silence
Day 18: 5 minute warmup; the Office of Readings; 15 minutes silence
Day 19: 5 minute warmup; full rosary (joyful mysteries); 5 minutes silence
Day 20: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 61-62; 15 minutes silence
Day 21: 5 minute warmup; memorize Isaiah 9:5 (“A child is born to us…”); 10 minutes silence

Week 4: Begin and end each day with 5 minutes of prayer, make two chapel visits

Day 22: 5 minute warmup; Jeremiah 31; 15 minutes silence
Day 23: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 35; reading from St. Augustine; 20 minutes silence
Day 24: 5 minute warmup; Matthew 1:18-2:23; G.K.Chesterton “The House of Christmas”; 20 minutes silence
Day 25: Half an hour of prayer: your choice

I’ve compiled the non-Biblical readings here if you want to print them in advance: Advent Boot Camp readings

This is going to max you out at 30-35 minutes of prayer at one time. If you feel like you can do more than that, go for it. But if you’re a beginner when it comes to non-liturgical prayer, this might be a good way to get started. Whether you’re interested in this approach or not, do spend some time praying about how you’re going to try to grow closer to the Lord this Advent. But don’t stress about it–it’s supposed to be a time of preparation and peace, not frantic anxiety, despite what the mall might do to you this time of year. You might consider starting to read the Bible through in a year using this schedule. Or read Caryll Houselander’s The Reed of God. Just be sure you do something more than bake and shop to prepare for Christmas this year. The Christ Child is coming, after all. Offer him your heart.

Give me a break–I didn’t have my driver’s license yet. [↩]
Click the Office of Readings tab [↩]

50 Ways to Talk to God

I know there are people out there–lots of them–who show up Sunday morning and call it good for the week. I know there are people who check Catholic on forms but don’t have any kind of a relationship with Christ. I guess I just figured there was a solid core of believers who were in love with Christ–or at least trying to be.

But I’m reading Sherry Weddell’s Forming Intentional Disciples and it’s breaking my heart. Almost half of Catholics, she says, don’t believe God is a personal God. They don’t even believe it’s possible to have a relationship with him. Most of us don’t pray beyond what’s required and when we do it’s not about love so much as a sense of duty. We might be committed to the Church, but we’re not really committed to Christ.

I hope this shocks you as much as it shocked me. I hope you’re living for Christ and seeking him every day in prayer. But if you’re one of those people checking off the boxes, one of those people doing the bare minimum and longing for more, I’m calling you out. Please go deeper. Christ is so much more than you think he is and you can be so much more, too. It’s great that you’re going to Mass, but I know he wants more from you. He wants more for you. He wants you to know him, to love him, to follow him and be fulfilled by him. He wants your prayer to be more than just lip service. He wants you to want him.

Maybe that’s too abstract, so I’m not staying up in my ivory tower on this one. I’m getting practical. You want to know where to start? Here are 50 ways to approach prayer like it’s more than just something to get through so you can get on with your week. Try one, try them all, but try something. You have nothing to lose. You have everything to gain.

Close your eyes and just repeat the name of Jesus.
Write a letter to God every night for a month. Promise yourself you won’t let anyone read them so you can forget the fancy language and get real.
Read the Song of Songs like Christ is the bridegroom and you’re the bride. Because you are.
When things get crazy, go to adoration at night.¹ Don’t try to stay on topic–just talk through all the mess in your life. Talk in circles and get frustrated and pull out your shopping list and process until your mind finally slows down. Work through it all and then just let yourself be. It’s a very loud silence, that.
Pray the news. Beg mercy for sinners, healing for the infirm, justice and peace and God’s will in all things.
Go somewhere beautiful (I recommend Montana) and revel in the majesty of God.
Hold a crucifix while you pray.
Pick a small but regular sacrifice (no sugar in your coffee, no condiments, no added salt). Thank Jesus for his sacrifice every time you make yours.
Pray the Our Father slowly. Take ten minutes to pray it once.
Ask the Blessed Mother to hold your hand and walk you to Jesus.
Tithe your free time–if you work eight hours a day and sleep eight hours a day, spend 48 minutes in prayer over the course of the day.
Think of how your small children tell you they love you–over and over, at any opportunity, with deep feeling and deep beauty even when it’s deeply awkward. Talk to God like you’re a little child.
Sit in a circle with your closest friends and take turns talking out loud to God.
Pray the Mass like it’s the Last Supper–because it is. Listen to Jesus like it’s your last night with him.
Pray the Mass like it’s Calvary–because it is. Look at his body stretched out, lifeless for you on the Cross. Receive his body broken for you in the Eucharist. Ask for the grace to live a life that’s worthy of that love.
Pray the Mass like it’s the heavenly banquet–because it is. Look for what’s true and good and beautiful. Thank God for the gift of the liturgy.
Go to a church and sit in silence until you just can’t stand it any more. Then sit for another five minutes.
Listen to an Ignatian Meditation. (More here.)
“For everything that has been, thanks. To everything that will be, yes.” -Dag Hammarskjold
When you kneel before the priest in confession, be mindful of the fact that you’re kneeling at the foot of the Cross accusing yourself before the God who hangs dying to save you. Hate your sin but let him love you just the same.
Memorize a Bible verse first thing in the morning. Make it your theme for the day.
Every night, write down every sin you committed that day. Do it until you just can’t take the weight of all those sins, then go experience the sweet release of absolution. After your confession, burn the list.
Pray the Litany of Humility until you mean it. Ouch.
Read Psalm 136, which describes everything God has ever done as being done because of his love. Go through your life from the very beginning and list everything that’s happened to you. Follow each event–good or bad– with “for his love endures forever.” Let him show you how he used every single thing for your good.
Jules Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc. Look at her. She’s attentive and determined but somehow already exhausted. Do you listen for God? Do you act when he says to even if you don’t think you have the strength?

Meditate on sacred art.
Talk to a friend about your relationship with Jesus. Sometimes talking about God becomes talking to God.
Remember: “[God] will give us feelings of love [toward Him] if He pleases. We cannot create them for ourselves, and we must not demand them as a right. But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.” -C.S. Lewis²
Read the day’s readings each day. Write down five things you learn.
Some time when you’re not tired, lie down in the sun and try to be still with the Lord. You may drift in and out of sleep but you may also surrender your mind and actually manage silence.
Pray over pictures of starving children. Ache for them as Christ aches for you.
Do something mindlessly physical while you pray–run or crochet or paint a wall. Engaging your body can make it easier to surrender your mind.
Jesus falls the third time. Source.

Meditate on the Stations of the Cross. Don’t just read the prayers in some book–ponder the prayers, look at the pictures, put yourself in the scene. Walk the Via Dolorosa with your Lord.
Make a list of everything you love about the Lord–who he is, what he’s done, how he loves you.
Pray for an image of your relationship with Christ–lovers, knight and squire, father and child, king and slave, comrades at arms–and learn through that.
When you can’t take it any more, drive to the middle of nowhere and let God have it. It’s not the nicest prayer, but it’s some of the most real.
Hit your knees first thing in the morning and thank God for everything that’s coming at you that day. Think through everything you’re expecting to deal with and thank him for the good, the bad and the ugly.
Offer each day–all prayers and sacrifices and blessings–for a specific person.
Do 15 minutes of spiritual reading. Spend 15 minutes talking to God about it.
If you speak another language, try praying in it. It’s harder to daydream in a foreign language.
Do lectio divina.
Rock out to some passionate praise music–“Lord I Need You,” “How He Loves,” “Amazed.”
Pray some intense hymns–“Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent,” “It Is Well,” “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” “Come Thou Fount.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T5WWy-uk0U
Pray some intense poems–John Donne’s “Sonnet XIV,” Francis Thompson’s “Hound of Heaven,” Bl. John Henry Newman’s “The Pillar of the Cloud.”
Do a daily examen.
When you’re suffering, thank God for all he suffered for you. Ask him to use your pain for his glory and the salvation of souls.
“Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Over and over until you mean it.
Pray a scriptural rosary.
Treat the Mass like the sacrifice it is. The whole thing is about Jesus giving himself completely for you, so listen to the readings like a challenge to surrender. Then offer your joys to him when the priest offers the bread. Offer your sorrows when he offers the wine. Offer your whole self when Jesus gives himself to you in the Eucharist. Come out changed.
At the end of the day, talk to Jesus about everything that happened that day. Thank him, beg his forgiveness, ask for strength for tomorrow.
Go through the motions if it’s the best you can do. It’s better than nothing.

Maybe none of these will fit you. I’m writing as an uber-emotional, academically-oriented woman. If you try these–multiple times–and you’re still not feeling it, try something else. Ask your priest, your best friend, the random lady at Mass who seems so pious. Share your suggestions and struggles below. Part of the problem is that we so often don’t talk about any of this so nobody realizes that nobody has it together. Then we decide that we’re just not one of the lucky few chosen to be saints and we settle for the bare minimum–a handful of obligations with no heart.

Christianity is so much more than a list of rules and pious practices, friends. It’s a relationship, a love like none you’ve ever known before. It’s the meaning of life, the God of the universe made man for you. Please don’t be content with empty prayer and an unabandoned heart. Ask for more. He always answers that prayer.

I don’t know what it is about the dark but it makes adoration so much more powerful. [↩]
via my dear friend The Evangelista [↩]