my life Archives - Page 3 of 4 Held By His Pierced Hands

The Pope Who Brought Me Home

I became Catholic quite against my will. Well, to be fair, when I actually became Catholic I was 3 months old and had very little will to speak of. But when I came to believe–when I left my adolescent atheism behind and embarked on the great adventure that’s brought me anguish and ecstasy, guilt and mercy, uncertainty and risk and sacrifice and so very much joy–it was not something I sought. The Lord looked past my rolling eyes, dragged me into a confessional, and didn’t let me go till I was washed clean and convicted.

And there I was, a wide-eyed 13-year-old knowing nothing but that Jesus was God and he loved me. So, like any other 13-year-old, I grabbed a Catechism and a Bible and set out to know all the things there were to know.

As it turns out, there’s quite a lot. And some of it is hard. And some of it seems illogical, especially when you know nothing about logic because you’re 13 and getting your answers from AskJeeves. But I’d read John 6 and I’d read Matthew 16 and I knew I was stuck. Like it or not, I was Catholic. But the Church still struck me as an ideology, not a home. Until I got to know my papa.

JPII was not a popular figure in my house. We were too liberal for his conservative nonsense. I distinctly remember my father remarking with disgust on “the latest papal bull” in such a way that I didn’t realize “bull” was a technical term, not a profane one. We didn’t pray for him, we didn’t have pictures of him, and we certainly didn’t admire him.

So I don’t know when I first got to know him. I don’t know if I realized at once how amazing he was. I just know this: by the time I was 16, I was absolutely convinced that my papa loved me. It didn’t matter that he’d never met me. He adored me. And he became the Church for me. When being Catholic seemed too hard or illogical, I knew it would break his heart if I left. Oh, he wouldn’t know, exactly, but this mystic pope of ours would feel the poorer for having lost me. I couldn’t do that to him.

There was something in his eyes that told me I mattered, something that spoke the love of Christ in a more powerful way than anyone I’d ever seen. I saw Christ move so powerfully in him that I fell in love. I used to creep my students out by telling them how handsome he was, how he was my number 2 crush of all time.¹ Sure, he was handsome. But it wasn’t just his face that drew me.

JPII was a baller. He was a brilliant philosopher, poet, actor, athlete, and polyglot. He was charming and charismatic, a Catholic rock star if ever there was one. He was handsome enough to swoon over, a man of prayer, and the Rock that Christ rebuilt our Church on during a tumultuous quarter century. He revolutionized the way we think about sex and the human person. He transformed our attitude towards youth. He destroyed communism in the West. But that’s not why I love him. I love him because he loved me.

I love him because he taught me what it meant to be loved by Christ. He longed for me and suffered for me and spoke truth to me. He put a human face on this institutional Church of ours and showed me that the Church was more than my teacher, she was my mother and my home. It wasn’t just that every explanation he gave satisfied my intellectual curiosity, it was that he spoke truth with the love of Christ. In writing about him now, I almost believe that he and I used to sit together and discuss these issues. That’s how much I could feel his love, even before he died and finally learned my name.

That was why I went to World Youth Day in Rome in 2000–to be near him. It was why I studied in Rome. I minored in Italian so that I could hang around the Vatican. I used to go to St. Peter’s and check the language signs on the confessionals to see if any had Polish, Italian, English, German, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese, Latin, etc. on the outside. Popes hear confessions too, right? It was why I started crying when a student told me he had kissed her when she was a little girl: because this Vicar of Christ had Jesus eyes and I felt the love of the Lord every time I was near him.

I remember being in class once with a professor who didn’t strike me as a huge JPII fan. I would have guessed that he was too far left to much admire my papa. He was big into peace and justice, running Pax Christi and the Catholic Worker House, and at the time I wasn’t aware that people could be all about social justice and all about personal morality at the same time.² So when a girl in class started lamenting the popes’ teaching on contraception, I wasn’t excited to hear his response.

“I don’t understand why some old man living in his golden palace in Rome gets to tell me what I can do with my body!”

“Old man in Rome?” he asked quietly. “He also lived in Nazi- and Communist-occupied Poland, Miss White Suburban America.” I’m pretty sure I applauded.

This was the thing about John Paul–sure, some people hated him,³ but far more loved him because he loved truth and he loved liars. He hated communism but loved communists. He hated sin but loved sinners. He endured loneliness and oppression and near starvation and came out the other side so filled with the love of Christ that you were almost compelled to look away. It was almost too beautiful to endure.

To this day, when I see a picture of him, I feel a pang. Not because I miss him but because I miss Christ. The face of Pope John Paul makes me long for heaven because he loved me–loves me–the way that Christ loves me. He pointed me to Christ. He still does. He made me love Christ and his Church more. He taught me what it meant to be human, to be a woman, to be a Catholic and a lover of humanity. Tomorrow’s canonization is a formality. I’ve known he was a Saint since long before he died.

My 4-year-old nephew was recently filling out the Sacramental record in his Bible. After listing his baptismal date (which I’m sure he has memorized) and his anticipated dates of First Communion and Confirmation, he had to put his confirmation sponsor’s name. “What’s a confirmation sponsor?” he asked his mom. “It’s someone who helps you stay Catholic,” she answered.

Without hesitation, he carefully wrote, “Pope JPII.”

Me, too, buddy. Me, too.

So I bought him this. Because I'm the best godmother ever. — So I bought him this. Because I’m the best godmother ever.

Linking up with Jenny and everybody else who loves my papa–find their stories over here!

Number 1: St. John the Beloved, because a guy with the courage and the faithfulness to stand at the foot of the Cross is more attractive than any Ryan Gosling meme. [↩]
Somehow I hadn’t noticed that they’re inseparable…. [↩]
I’m not unaware of his flaws, most especially his colossal failure to act in the face of the clergy sex abuse. Knowing him as I do, I can’t help but believe that he did the best he could with the information he was given and the understanding of pedophilia that was prevalent during his formative years. I am terribly, terribly sorry for those victims who felt that his silence was compliance and whose pain is raw this weekend. Please know that I weep for you and that your Father in heaven aches for you and rages against those who hurt you. Your Church longs for you and will never stop loving you. This canonization is not a declaration that all his actions were impeccable–none of us are without fault, not even the saints among us–but a celebration of the many, many ways he did act to make Christ’s love more tangible to the many empty hearts in this world. [↩]

A Money-Making, Grace-Filled Game-Changer

When you go to something like 100 parishes a year, you see a lot of different attempts at wooing youth. There’s a lot of pizza and a lot of awkward games and a lot of good people trying to lead a lot of reluctant teens (and some interested ones) closer to Christ. I’ve seen some great youth ministers and some great Bible studies but the most beautiful community of youth that I’ve encountered was at a random parish in Southern Maryland.

Two years ago (as I remember the story) the pastor of St. John’s in Hollywood, MD walked up to the youth minister. “I hired two teens for the summer, so…we need to find something for them to do.”

Fr. Ray and Rich started brainstorming and wondered: “What would happen if we got young people going to Mass and adoration every day?”

So they did. They set up a day camp for that summer and started hiring 16-22-year-olds to staff it. But this isn’t just a job for these young people: it’s a mission summer. Yes, daily Mass and a holy hour and a theology class are written into their contractual day. They have to go. But there are events every evening of the week, too: pool parties and encyclical study groups and girls’ nights and bowling nights. Some of them are intense and intellectual, others more concerned about building community; all are optional. But the staff knows coming in that their summer job is not a 9-5 deal. They’re there to serve and they’re there to be transformed.

Even on paper, it makes so much sense. Here’s a Catholic school standing empty all summer–why not use the facility? Struggling with low enrollment in your parochial school? Draw families in during the summer and they’ll become part of the community.¹ Can’t afford a youth minister? Camp fees pay the summer program staff plus a full-time youth minister year round. Families coming in for Mass on Sunday but not part of the community? Build community for them. It’s easy to fill your rosters because you can charge less than any other camp or daycare in the area while still paying all your bills–and once the price tag draws them in, the Holy Spirit will do the rest.

Wouldn't you want to go to a camp where you could take lego robotics? Or American girl dolls? Or paper making or chess or film production or soccer or cooking or creative problem solving or "Exploring Religious Life" or anything you can imagine? — Wouldn’t you want to go to a camp where you could take lego robotics? Or American girl dolls? Or paper making or chess or film production or soccer or cooking or creative problem solving or “Exploring Religious Life” or anything you can imagine?

But you guys, this is so much more than just what is practical and reasonable. This program is transforming the parish. The families know each other so their kids want to be at church events. Some kids have been received into the church as a result of their experience with the summer program; other families started at camp because it was cheap or convenient and are back practicing the faith again after years away.

The biggest impact, though, is on the staff. These kids take a summer to serve and they come away transformed. They learn theology in their classes and discussion groups, but they also learn it in their conversations with their peers. They learn to pray both by being expected to do it every day and by being led deeper by leaders and friends. They learn what true friendship looks like by building community with the staff–community that lasts well past the end of camp.

It doesn't hurt that they're surrounded by priests, seminarians, and religious.... — It doesn’t hurt that they’re surrounded by priests, seminarians, and religious….

And it’s not just relationships with their newfound friends that last. During that first summer, two of the staff discerned a call to enter seminary and one discerned a vocation to religious life. Two more will enter religious life this fall, strengthened by the support of this incredible community. The ones still in high school are volunteering as catechists and itching to get back to camp. Those who are off at college are generally going to daily Mass and spending serious time in prayer. Honestly, they challenge me, when we’re all hanging out and they suggest that we go to the chapel instead. Or when I tell them they can read the whole Bible in a year in just 20 minutes a day² and they ask if that’s really enough time to meditate on it.

I’ll be real with you: I’ve never met young people with such hearts for Jesus. And it’s all because someone asked them to be holy. I’ve always thought the best way to reach young people was with truth and goodness and beauty, with the meat of the faith not pizza and cozy relativism. This summer program does it: no gimmicks and nothing washed down, just solid theology, intense prayer, and the expectation that you’ll give everything. Once you go all in, you’ll be amazed at what God can do with your meager gifts.

All you have to do is fill in the talent. Hey look, it's me! — Just fill in the talent. Hey look, it’s me!

Why am I telling you all this? Because you can do the same thing–and way more easily than they did. St. John’s believes in this program so much, they want you to have it, too. They’ve done all the legwork for you. They’ve put together all their resources: camp schedule, classes and curriculum, payroll info, even the forms you have to fill out to be accredited in Maryland. And they want to give it to any Catholic parish. For free.

Seriously, all you have to do is take the work they’ve poured into this money-making, grace-filled game-changer, write your name at the top, and sign at the bottom. They’ll help you through the whole process, simply because they see what the Holy Spirit is doing through their program. Will you think about it? Take a look at the St. John’s website to see what their camp is like, and maybe glance at St. Joseph’s, which is starting a camp this summer modeled after St. John’s. Then go see what they’re really all about and send the info to your parish. All you have to do to have access to literally all of their resources is contact the camp director and ask for the password.

I’ll be honest: I’m not sure how this camp will translate under different leadership. I think a lot of the transformation of these kids comes from the fact that their pastor and their youth minister are holy men with hearts for youth and no apparent need for personal time. But if you’ve got godly leadership on board, this summer program could do more than use your space wisely. It can strengthen your parish and make saints of your youth all while putting your parish back in the black. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.

And if you’re near Southern Maryland, check out the classes they have to offer:

In 2 years, the camp has brought in at least 9 new students to the school. [↩]
Speaking of which, I just revamped the schedule to give you a better sense of Biblical history, spread out the hard stuff, and generally make it more awesome. Expect that post next week, God willing. [↩]

“How does this work?”

One of the top questions I get as a hobo (along with “Where do you shower?” and “How did you decide to do this?”) is about logistics: how do I know where to go next?

It’s a complicated question, this, because it’s different every time. For example, I know where I’ll be next February 4th, but Wednesday morning I didn’t know where I would spend that night. Sometimes people contact me so far in advance that I build my schedule around them. Other times I go to meet a teacher and find myself in his classroom all afternoon. Sometimes I plan all year to go see an old friend. Other times snow blocks my path to Chicago and I end up heading to see a classmate in Peoria. I keep my Google calendar and a map of upcoming travels open in Firefox all the time for “planning” purposes, but a lot of it’s about flexibility.

Travels (more or less) from January to May. (Excluding Hawaii, which makes Google maps freak out.) The further out I plan, the less detail there is and the more days (or weeks) there still are to fill. — Travels (more or less) from January to May. (Excluding Hawaii, which makes Google maps freak out.) The further out I plan, the less detail there is and the more days or weeks there still are to fill. So that Peoria to Albuquerque stretch will probably involve quite a few stops but I don’t yet know what they are.

I mostly plan around invitations I’ve received and then fill in the gaps with what makes geographical sense. So how do people find me to invite me in the first place?

1. My blog

I don’t actually much like writing. You might have picked up on that from the fact that I do it so rarely. But I enjoy having written, so I do it anyway. And then people read it and like it and share it and their friends start poking around on here and see that I’m a hobo and contact me to set something up. So it all works out!

2. Facebook

These days it feels as though Facebook has almost as much to do with the direction of my life as the Holy Spirit. I’ve got a gap of a few days, so I post the time period and the approximate location on Facebook and within 3 hours I’ve got a place to stay and work to do. Or I’m worried about the snow I’m driving into and post my location so I’ve got someplace to sleep if the weather gets too bad. If you don’t mind reading about all my travel plans (and woes) on your news feed, follow me on Facebook. Who knows–maybe I’ll be passing through your town and we’ll get to hang out!

3. Word of mouth

Last night, I spoke to a group of grad students because a friend of a friend of a friend knew someone who was involved. I stayed with women who knew the woman who knew the woman who knew the woman who knew my friend. Of course, many of the links in that chain are my real friends now, but it all happens because somebody tells somebody. That’s how I’m going to Europe in the fall (do you live in Europe? I want to come to you!!) and how I may finally make it to Alaska this summer–people who know people.

4. Straight up Providence

It’s all Providence, of course, but sometimes it’s more obvious: the guy who comes to check on me because I pulled over in front of his house to make a phone call–and then ends up praying over me in the middle of the street; the priest who introduces himself and then offers me a house to stay in and a youth group to speak at; the lady next to me on the plane who says I’ve always got a home with her; the broken-down car resulting in a plane ticket donated by a stranger. The crazy stories that keep reminding me that it’s not about me.

In the end, I don’t have to plan or worry or figure anything out. I serve a mighty God who’s been planning my hoboing since before there was time. After so many years of running my own life (and doing a rather miserable job), it’s a relief to acknowledge the he was always in charge. How does this work? Grace. Providence. And mercy working on a broken heart learning every day to trust. Thanks for all your prayers and support, friends–I couldn’t do this without the Holy Spirit working through you.

Favorites (For Now)

I answer a lot of the same questions when I speak: Where do you shower? How do you get money? How did you decide to do this? And I don’t mind answering them, but sometimes I get really good questions that make me stop and think. A recent one was my favorite parable.¹ So I got to thinking about some of my other favorites and thought I’d share them with y’all.

Now, I’m a rather indecisive person, so these are all subject to change. And some of them really might only be my favorite today and never again. But as of right now, here are my favorites:

Parable: The Lost Sheep (Luke 15:1-7). He never stops searching for you, no matter what you’ve done. What a God, to love us so desperately and rejoice so passionately at our return.

Gospel: John. “The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.”² “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.”³ “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on, do not sin any more.”⁴ “In the world you will have trouble, but take courage: I have conquered the world.”⁵ “And Jesus wept.”⁶ “For my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.”⁷

Psalm: 20 (Grail translation)

May the Lord answer in time of trial;
may the name of Jacob’s God protect you.

May he send you help from his shrine
and give you support from Sion.
May he remember all your offerings
and receive your sacrifice with favor.

May he give you your heart’s desire
and fulfill every one of your plans.
May he ring out our joy at your victory
and rejoice in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your prayers.

I am sure now that the Lord
will give victory to his anointed,
will reply from his holy heaven
with the mighty victory of his hand.

Some trust in chariots or horses,
but we in the name of the Lord.
They will collapse and fall,
but we shall stand and hold firm.

Give victory to the king, O Lord,
give answer on the day we call

Sometimes, to memorize Bible passages, I set them to music. This one happens to be recorded on my computer, so if you promise not to be annoyed by the metronome in the background, you can listen in:

Book of the Bible: Isaiah. “The virgin shall be with child and bear a son and call his name Emmanuel.”⁸ “You are precious in my sight, you are beautiful, and I love you.”⁹ “Though the mountains leave their place and the hills be shaken my love will never leave you.”¹⁰ “Can a mother forget her children? Be without tenderness for the child of her womb? Even should she forget, I will never forget you. See, upon the palms of my hands I have written your name.”¹¹ “You shall be called ‘my delight’ and your land ‘espoused,’ for the Lord delights in you and makes your land his spouse. As a young man marries a virgin, your builder shall marry you. And as a bridegroom rejoices in his bride, so shall your God rejoice in you.”¹²

And yes, those are all set to music in my head.

Bible Story: Jonah. I love what a drama queen he is. I love how he runs from God. I love how grudgingly he does God’s will. I love the fit he pitches after God works miracles through his reluctant obedience. I just really identify with him, I guess. Also, Moses and the buts, Elijah’s still small voice,¹³ and the sacrifice of Isaac.¹⁴

Gospel Story: The Anointing at Bethany (Mt 26:6-13). Scholars think that the oil she used on Jesus was her dowry. She kept nothing back, offering her past, her present, and her future in her desperate longing to be close to Christ. If only.

Place on Earth: Assisi. Have you been? Go! It can get crowded around feast days, but when it’s quiet, there’s a spirit of prayer that permeates the place. I love Rome, too, but Assisi makes it more possible to submerge yourself in the sacred without being dragged out by Vespas and lingerie ads. Do make sure you get to pray before the relics of St. Clare. She can be easy to miss in the hype surrounding Francis, but that spot before her body has been one of the most important places in my life.

Place in the Holy Land: the synagogue at Capernaum. You wouldn’t think it, given that I’m pretty much a professional Catholic, but I’m quite a skeptic. So visiting the Holy Land was hard for me–there’s just not a lot of evidence for the claims that this is the exact spot where Jesus died or this is the spot where Mary met Elizabeth. Since it doesn’t really matter, I didn’t much mind, but it did get frustrating, waiting in line for half an hour to see a place where Jesus maybe was 2000 years ago when I could walk right in to the chapel where he is right now. But Capernaum is definitely the Capernaum. It’s in the right spot and it’s even labeled. And while they like to tell you “This is Simon Peter’s house” or “This is where Jesus healed whoever,” eventually you get to the synagogue, which is the ruins of a first century synagogue. The only synagogue in the village, it’s pretty clear that it’s the synagogue from John 6. And the synagogue in John 6 is where Jesus gave the Bread of Life Discourse. Intense.

Saint: Josephine Bakhita. Okay, this is really hard. St. Damien and St. Catherine of Alexandria are my standard answers. I also love Francis Xavier, Teresa of Avila, Edmund Campion, Margaret of Castello, John the Beloved, and about a hundred others. But yesterday was Josephine’s feast day and she wanted to be a Sister so bad that she fought her “owners” all the way to the Italian courts for her freedom and then said that she thanked God that she had been sold into slavery because that’s how she came to know Christ. And then she lived the rest of her life in mundane religious obscurity. Yeah.

Hymn: Come Thou Fount.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

Yes.

Praise Song: How He Loves.

The lyrics are just exactly what my heart needs to be reminded of: how he loves me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7CQ96uohcM

Feast Day: The Annunciation (March 25th) This is where it all began. Mary’s yes brought about God made man. In being incarnate at the Annunciation, God the Son consented to 33 years of poverty, ignominy, and rejection, culminating in betrayal, torture, shame and death. The Annunciation holds the promise of Christmas, Good Friday, and Easter, and all because one girl was willing to do God’s will. What a day.

Book: On Being Catholic by Thomas Howard. It’s an intellectual’s love letter to the Church. Howard has an impressive vocabulary–so much so that I read it with a dictionary–but he’s not showing off. There’s a richness in here that you don’t encounter in a lot of modern writing. Just go read it.

Liturgical Season: the Triduum. I kind of feel like it’s cheating to pick such a short and hardcore season, but it’s technically a season and it’s awesome. Tenebrae and the silence at the end of Holy Thursday and the empty tabernacle and the Seven Last Words and stations and priests prostrating and the darkened church and the seven first readings and the Gloria and the lilies and the Alleluia and the bells and the lights and the feasting! I always end the Triduum exhausted, even when I’ve been on retreat. It just makes my heart so tired–and so full.

Sacrament: the Eucharist. I feel as though I ought to pick Baptism since Baptism saves you and is necessary¹⁵ for salvation. And then I feel as though I should pick Confession since everything good in my life is the direct result of one good confession in 1997. But, oh, friends, the Eucharist! Jesus Christ in the flesh, holding nothing back, stopping at nothing to be close to you, desperate for you. Source and summit, “the center of existence” (Flannery O’Connor), “the one great thing to love on earth” (Tolkien).

Thing about being Catholic: Ditto. Also, the fullness of truth. Obviously, it’s the Eucharist. But a very close second is the confidence I have in the truth of Catholic doctrine, the knowledge that there is an answer to every question I have. It’s a truth steeped in theology, inviting questions and searching and hours of meditation, but the truth is there for the embracing. What a gift this Church is!

Okay, it’s on you. Tell me some of your favorites! Answer them all or just pick out the ones you can decide on. And feel free to throw a few new categories in there–I may even get around to adding them!

Yeah, he was a Protestant. Catholics don’t generally ask about the Bible. Sigh. [↩]
Jn 1:14 [↩]
Jn 14:18 [↩]
Jn 8:11 [↩]
Jn 16:33 [↩]
Jn 11:35 [↩]
Jn 6:55 [↩]
Is 7:14 [↩]
Is 43:4 [↩]
Is 54:10 [↩]
Is 49:15-16 [↩]
Is 62:4-5 [↩]
1 Kgs 19 [↩]
Gen 22 [↩]
By water, blood, or desire. [↩]

A Day in the Life

People often ask me what a typical day looks like for me. There’s no such thing as a typical day, but today was a good example of how full things get–and how suddenly things happen! The average day is more likely to have a long drive, but other than that, today was pretty much par for the course.

Hanging out with somebody else's kid: typical hobo behavior. (That's Jenna's Ellen!) — Hanging out with somebody else’s kid: typical hobo behavior. (That’s Jenna‘s Ellen!)

7:30: start hitting snooze.
8:10: get up.
8:30: take somebody’s kid to preschool.
8:40: Mass and Jesus time.
10:30: make a new friend and eat some chips.
11:15: phone call from a friend: “Want to come meet the religion teacher at my school?”
11:35: meet religion teacher.
12:00: meet another religion teacher. “Nice to meet you. Want to teach my classes this afternoon?”
12:15: meet chaplain. “Nice to meet you. Want to teach my class during his free period?”
12:30: tell freshman boys to man up and fight for the women around them.
1:10: meet with administrator to solve all the world’s problems.
1:30: meet senior campus ministry all stars. Ask them their favorite thing about being Catholic. Be disappointed when nobody says the Eucharist.
1:45: tell freshman boys to man up and fight for the women around them.
2:25: give senior boys the hard sell: live for Jesus or quit wasting your time.
2:45: impromptu spiritual direction with a Jesuit who asks hard-hitting questions.
3:00: talk discernment with a handful of seniors.
3:30: stop by adoration.
4:15: process life and trust on the phone with a beautiful friend.
5:15: help with dinner and kids.
6:00: dinner. Defer to the dad when kindergartener asks what circumcision is.
6:30: pack up to switch houses.
7:00: ladies’ night–tea and cookies with some moms at somebody’s house.
9:30: drive to a third home, socialize.
10:00: start dealing with emails and scheduling and the like.
eventually: bed.

Lesson learned: never say, “It’s okay, I’ll shower after Mass.”

Somehow, I think this picture is relevant. It has nothing to do with the weather I'm currently enduring. Let it snow! — Somehow, I think this picture is relevant–maybe because my no-shower hair is equally disastrous, if less obviously so? It certainly has nothing to do with the weather I’m currently enduring. Let it snow!

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.

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. [↩]

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

So You Want to Be a Missionary? Well, Good. Because You Already Are.

Not long after my conversion, I decided that the only reasonable thing to do with my life was to be a missionary.¹ After all, I thought, if Jesus is God, why would I not want to spend the rest of my life telling other people about it? So I (at the ripe old age of 14) formulated my first life plan: be a missionary in the Ivory Coast.² I had a glamorous image of being called by God to preach the Gospel, being sent to a far-off land where I’d suffer for him. Probably someone was going to make a movie out of my life, it was going to be that cool.

And then life happened, and I was on plan number two: teach high school religion. But I was still called, still preaching, still sent, and certainly still suffering. I began to see that God had called me to be a missionary, just in Georgia instead of Africa.

Not the far-off land I was anticipating.... — Not the far-off land I was anticipating….

Now when people ask me what I do (or where I live or why I’m in town or how I know their brother), I answer that I’m a missionary. And people accept it because I’m doing something weird and preachy that doesn’t make much money. But when Family Missions Company asked me to blog for World Mission Sunday³ about my life as a missionary and all I could think was: so are you.⁴

Sure, I’m a missionary now. I wander from town to town speaking of the love of God, never knowing what consolation or persecution tomorrow will bring. But I was a missionary when I was a teacher and when I was a nanny and when I was a student. And I’ll be a missionary if I work retail or answer phones or stay at home. If you’re a Christian, you’re a missionary. It’s part of the job description. The question isn’t if you’re going to be a missionary–it’s for whom. Because either you’re preaching the Gospel of Christ or you’re slapping the name Christian on some other gospel. And any other gospel masquerading as Christianity comes from the Evil One.⁵ Choose today whom you will serve.⁶

You’ve already been called.

On the day you were baptized, you were commissioned. You were anointed as a prophet and sent out to make disciples of all nations.⁷ There’s no such thing as an armchair Christian. You are the salt of the earth, the light of the world.⁸ You are the body of Christ⁹ sent to feed and clothe and teach and love.¹⁰

But really, if you believe that Christianity is true, why wouldn’t you want to share it? Are you so obsessed with your own comfort, so afraid of rejection that you’re willing to withhold the love of Christ from hungry souls? Are you so impressed by your own inadequacy that you believe God can’t use you? This is joy and beauty and true love and we’re afraid to lead people to the water because they might be annoyed that we offered them a drink. The missionary vocation isn’t for the chosen few–it’s for every Christian there has ever been. It’s for people who don’t know a lick of theology, people who aren’t comfortable praying out loud, people who are timid or selfish or lazy or awkward. It’s for you. Do something about it.

You’re already preaching the gospel.

If you claim the name of Christian, you’re preaching. Your life speaks volumes to the people around you. It proclaims the message of your gospel: “There is joy in Christ” or “Those who love the Lord serve” or “No sinners allowed” or “Money is all you need” or “Fill your life with noise and you never have to be alone.” They watch you and listen to you and come away thinking that “Christians do that/say that/think that” or “The Church believes that.”

Your life preaches a gospel–it just might not preach the Gospel. Take a look at your life today from an outsider’s perspective and ask yourself a few things: What do my choices tell people that I value most? If I had a catch phrase, what would it be? Do people hear Christ when they listen to me? If my life were the only Gospel people read, would they want him? If you’re a missionary, you’d better know for damn sure what gospel you’re preaching. I think a lot of us Christians are preaching the world with a little Jesus thrown in. Check yourself.

You’re already sent to all nations.

Most of you encounter people of different races and nationalities every day. You’re sent to all of them. Not just the ones who look like you. Not just the ones who speak your language. Not just the ones of your class or your creed. You’re sent to that cashier with the unpronounceable name, to the beggar with the pack of cigarettes, to the neighbor with the accent and “too many” kids. Jesus didn’t pick and choose. He came to Pharisees and Samaritans, to Marthas and Magdalenes, to the blind and the lame and the whole and the broken. You’re sent to everyone, too.

Oh, you might never leave small town Nebraska. You might never see someone who’s not from your home country. You, too, are sent to all nations. You’re sent to the poor and the rich, to atheists and fundamentalists, to saints and sinners. You don’t get to keep the Gospel to yourself. You have to live it–to love every person. Every person. Even the addict. Even the immigrant. Even the lazy. Even your father, no matter what he did. Even your teenager. Even when he calls you that. Every person.

And friend, you’re a missionary. You might primarily be called to preach with your actions, but sometimes you’ve got to use words. Sometimes you have to put a stop to that catty conversation at Thanksgiving dinner. Sometimes you have to offer to pray for someone who’ll sneer at the thought. Sometimes you have to go out on a limb and straight up preach the Gospel to a disbelieving audience. Because you’re a missionary. And God will do incredible things even through your weak words.

You’re already suffering.

I always figured what made missionaries so awesome was how they suffered. But it wasn’t the spectacular suffering that impressed me. Oh, don’t get me wrong–I love a good martyrdom story. And I know better than to think it’s easy; while I do want to be martyred, I’m hoping for a quick bullet to the head, not being skinned alive or having my fingers bitten off. That’s some incredible stuff. But heroic endurance in moments of terror is obviously a supernatural gift. I trust that God will provide. It’s the everyday that gets me. The dirt floors, the well out back, the heat, the terrifying bugs. That’s what makes a missionary’s life so hard. That’s what makes them such heroes: persevering through constant suffering without even the satisfaction of righteous anger. After all, who are you going to blame for the monsoons?

Okay, yeah, sometimes being a missionary looks like this.

You’re suffering like that, too. Oh, they might be #firstworldproblems. And they might not exactly be because of the Gospel. But if you’re serious about your faith, there are inconveniences you endure that you wouldn’t otherwise have to. Maybe it’s just missing some football because you’re going to Mass. Or not having enough money for a grand vacation because you have four children instead. Maybe it’s not getting enough sleep because you’re trying to prioritize prayer. Maybe you could look hotter if you showed more skin. There are sacrifices you make for the Gospel–Christ honors those just as much as he does the impressive poverty of the foreign missionary.

And if you’re doing it right, you’re probably being persecuted. You may not have scars from it–not physical ones, anyway–but you get nasty Facebook comments, rolled eyes, accusations of hypocrisy, and cooled friendships. When you speak truth, the world will retaliate. And when you do it well, Satan will do his best to discourage you. Maybe Butler won’t write about all you endured, but it gives glory to God all the same.

If you have the courage of your convictions, you might lose a job. Or a friend. Or a marriage. You might lose social standing, like Elizabeth Ann Seton and John Henry Newman. Or you might lose your life, like countless others in the annals of our Church. But you will gain the world.

Yes, I asked the guy at the coffee shop if I could take a picture of his tattoo. Yes, I asked him if he would be my best friend. Can we all stop being so judgey and start wondering if he has a girlfriend and if not who we should set him up with?

So stop hiding your lamp under a bushel basket. Stop waiting around until you can be a missionary, and go be one! Invite someone to Mass, pray before you eat, take your baby to a nursing home, make a holy hour, call someone who’s hurting, take a homeless man to lunch, do some street evangelization, share a Bible verse on Twitter, flip over the scandalous magazines in the grocery store, get a Christian tattoo that isn’t ugly or weird, start a Bible study at Starbucks, ask your brother why he stopped going to Church, tell your coworker about God, help at youth group, listen to your children, smile more, bake cookies for prisoners, offer to go door to door inviting people to church, help a little old lady across a street,¹¹ tell people about the Saint of the day, call a friend out on unchristian behavior, go to confession yourself, listen to the Holy Spirit, pray, love, live for Christ.

When it comes down to it, life in the mission fields is made up of moments. Each moment might be ordinary but they can add up to an extraordinary life. You don’t have to do anything spectacular to be a missionary. You just have to remember that you already are and try to act like it.

Interesting side note: I’m pretty sure the very first talk I ever gave was on being a missionary. [↩]
In case you’re keeping track: I’m one Sacrament, one continent, and four babies behind on this plan. This may be why I’ve given up on planning. [↩]
That’s today! Well, to my mind it’s tomorrow. But that’s just because I should have written this weeks ago and instead I’m writing it at 2am. Win. [↩]
And then I went back and realized that that was actually what they asked me to do, so…great minds think alike? Anyway, I wasn’t being disingenuous here. Just had a bad memory and not enough time or inspiration to rewrite. [↩]
Before you start quoting Nostra Aetate at me, I’m talking about watered-down Christianity or secular humanism or materialism or other things that Christians might be preaching with their lives. [↩]
Jos 24:15 [↩]
Mt 28:19 [↩]
Mt 5:13-16 [↩]
1 Cor 12:27 [↩]
Mt 25 [↩]
I actually saw a young man–in sagging jeans and a hoodie–doing this the other day and I almost died of how cute it was. [↩]