This is probably the most important election of our lifetimes–certainly the most important of mine to date.1 There’s so much at stake in a frighteningly polarized nation. I already told you I believe that a vote for Obama is a vote against life and liberty.2 By now, you’ve most likely made up your mind who to vote for; maybe you’ve voted already. And now you’re sitting around anxious and miserable and dreading tomorrow morning (or very late tonight).
I want to ask you, friends, to join me in fasting and prayer not for victory but for God’s will. We may disagree on many things, but odds are good that if you’re reading this, you believe in God. And if you believe in him, you probably know (at some level) that his plans are better than all we can ask or imagine. You probably know that God works all things for good. You probably know that in God’s providence, even that terrible Friday was Good.
So today, fast with me. Maybe it’s too late for you to go water-only or maybe that’s unsafe in your situation. Give up meat for the day or sweets or soda or sitcoms or facebook.3 When we fast, we lend strength to our prayer. We tell God that our intention matters more to us than our flesh does. We’re reminded of our prayer throughout the day; skip a meal and every time your stomach rumbles, you can ask the Lord once again to bless our nation and guide our elections.
Pray with me. Go to Mass if you can or pray a Rosary. Lead your children in a prayer for our nation. Sit before the Blessed Sacrament and beg for the protection of the unborn, for the preservation of religious liberty, for justice for the poor, for aid to immigrants, for peace in our hearts and homes and streets and world. Our God moves mountains–he will answer your prayer.
Please vote. Please, please vote. We are so privileged to be able to vote and to let laziness or indifference or dinner plans keep us from the polls is unconscionable. Do what you have to do to get there. Vote.
But friends, don’t worry. Whoever is our president-elect when we wake up on Wednesday, there will be no riots. There will be no revolution. We will look tragic or smug, we will whine or brag, and we will go on with our lives. Because in America, as in so few places, we are free. And while this election will determine how free we are, the fact remains that we are blessed to live in a country where we may mistrust the government but we do not fear it. When you look at the history of the world, it almost seems a miracle.
And whatever happens, God will still be in control. Perhaps we will face systematic persecution on a large scale, the like of which no church has ever seen in this country. Perhaps the persecution will remain subtle and the temptation will be to continue to leave the poor and the marginalized in our wake. Perhaps this election will be like so many others and very little will change. Whoever our new president is, there will be suffering and joy and frustration and complacency. There will be a cross, made heavier or lighter. But God will still be God.
Whoever is elected, God will still be God.
If you’re going to join me in fasting and praying for our country and this election, would you leave a comment? Share what you’re doing if you like or just tell us that you’re in. Either way, I think we could all use the encouragement.
Last week I got in my car and drove 16 hours to the kids I left in May. Hours and hours I drove to make it in time for Homecoming, to watch the game and see the dresses and hug the queen and let the new alums curse in front of me because they finally can. I pulled up Thursday afternoon and walked up to the school where I quite literally lived for two years.
To girls who shout “You’re my favorite teacher ever” and insist on taking a picture with me.
To girls who screamed and ran to hug me.
To a wide receiver who told the football team they had to win homecoming for me—not to break an eight-year losing streak at homecoming but to thank me for showing up.
To a team that played their guts out and shattered the streak—and thanked me afterwards for being there.
To “I haven’t told anyone else about this, but….”
To “Please come back. Please—we need you.”
To the quarterback who schedules confessions for the team because I convinced him that he plays better in a state of grace.
To dozens of kids who still know all the books of the Bible in order.
To classrooms full of eager eyes and quick smiles, full of kids who still remember what I taught them.
To a volleyball team that yells not “Team” or “Ravens” but “Ms. H-K” when they go for the win.
To girls who stare at me from the bench until I look across the soccer field and see them waving.
To “I miss your homework and your notes.”
To “I took your notebook to college. Everyone else borrows it to study for tests.”
To “Can we talk while you’re in town?”
To “I need your help,” “Please pray for me,” ”I’ve hit rock bottom,” “I don’t think I can try anymore,” “What should I do?”
To a heart that burns with pride and weeps with frustration and fears and loves and despairs and hopes and prays and prays and prays.
And I ache and I cry because I just love them so hard. And when they ask me to come back I want so badly to say yes. I want so badly to be here for them and to love them and yell at them and challenge and console and listen and teach and advise and suffer and just be theirs.
But they don’t need me. Because if they needed me, I’d still be here. So when they ask me to stay, I just tell them, “I can’t. I’m in God’s will. I have to be faithful to that. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t miss grading or discipline or long days or constant disrespect or any number of stupid issues that plague teachers. But I miss my kids so much. I’m so blessed to be so loved by these little ones—these big ones, these “adults” who are still my babies—but their love makes it hurt all the more.
And I wonder if there’s always a longing when you’re in God’s will. My restless heart wants this life he’s given me and wants my kids, too. But the ache reminds me that this world is not my home. It reminds me that I was made for more. I’m glad of the reminder in the midst of a life so full of grace. I’m glad to feel the poverty of earthly joy because it reminds me to long for heaven. I’m glad to suffer whatever he asks me to suffer for the glory of his name and the salvation of souls. I’m glad, I am.
I was planning a much better-developed post on this topic, but God kind of forced my hand.
I’ve been praying recently about the fact that I do crazy, radical things because I trust God. I consent to perpetual celibacy, I quit my job and live out of my car–you know, pretty much the usual for a successful, educated woman pushing thirty. And yet I’m super anxious and obsessive about stupid, unimportant matters: whether I might run out of gas before the next rest stop because I didn’t feel like stopping at the last one even though the light was already on; whether I’ll be able to find a parking spot downtown in time to make it to Mass early enough for it to count as Mass; whether the check that’s been following me around America will finally catch up with me in time to cover my bills.1
This is ridiculous! Why do I trust God with the salvation of the entire world but I don’t trust him with my calluses? Why am I willing to offer him hours in prayer every day but I just can’t give him the two minutes left in my holy hour because what if my host is waiting for me?
Seriously, it just feels pathetic, largely because it’s so irrational. I trust God with the creation, care, and salvation of every human soul, with the design of the genome, with the tiny little flashes of inspiration that lead to a life of faith. I trust him with my whole life–just none of the details of it.
So today in adoration, I made a list of things I trust God with:
The happiness and salvation of everyone in the world.
That’s pretty BA, huh? I’m, like, practically a saint.
So then I made a list of the things I don’t trust God with:
My car. (It might break down.)
Traffic. (I might be late.)
Other people’s opinion of me. (I care more than anybody ever should.)
My success. (What if I never get any jobs?)
Anything involving paperwork. (That stuff stresses me out!)
My stuff. (I don’t have much, so if I mess it up, I’ll have to replace it and that’s really frustrating.)
A place to stay. (I trust God to provide in general, but what if I can’t find someone to put me up next Thursday?)
And, like a good little Christian, I asked God to teach me to trust him. I told him I wanted him to be Lord over the details in my life, not just the big picture. I prayed to delight in his will3 and offered every moment of this day for the glory of his name and the salvation of souls.
And then I went to my friend’s mechanic because my brakes had suddenly started feeling squishy. Quick patch on the brake line, I thought, and we’re good to go.
Nope. $800 fix. Oh, and the part won’t be here till Thursday, so I have to stay in Mobile till then because my brakes will almost certainly go out completely if I do any more driving on them.4
I’m supposed to be at Ave Maria in Florida on Monday.
So, for those of you keeping track at home, that’s an expensive car repair (#1 and #6) that makes me miss speaking engagements (#4) and strands me at someone’s house (#3–what if they think I’m a burden? They absolutely don’t and I know that and they’re wonderful but what if??). Oh, and if I skip Ave, I don’t know where I’ll go before Indiana on the 23rd (#7).
So here’s all the wisdom I can muster on the cross I was handed on the Feast of the Triumph of the Cross:
If I figure out this side of heaven what the silver lining to this is, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’ll enjoy an extended visit with dear friends and wonder why Megabus doesn’t go from Alabama to Florida. Feel free to throw some prayers my way, for miracles, resignation, or both.
Notice that these are all travel-related. Because that’s pretty much all I do. [↩]
You know, that he’ll take care of me even though I’m living out of my car and don’t have a real home. [↩]
It’s the brake master cylinder–apparently that’s important. And I think it’s all legit because it was a Firestone, so he’s got no real incentive to mess with me, especially since he spent 45 minutes on the phone trying to get the part quicker. He managed to get a promise of “Monday or Tuesday.” I’m not optimistic. [↩]
He taught me to dance in my tiny grad school living room. We had to push the futon out of the way to have room. Sure, I’d “danced” before, but I never could get my feet to do the right things, and I was nervous. I’m not generally clumsy,1 but there’s something about someone being that close and paying that much attention to the movement of my body that just makes me nervous.
This is not a picture of that dance lesson (although it would have been nice if he had been wearing a tux). But it is a picture of me dancing. So that’s relevant. Right?
But he was nice, and not my type, so I let him teach me.
“What do I do?” I asked, as he put his hand on the small of my back.
“Just lean back,” he smiled.
“But what are the steps? How do I count?” I’m sure a look of panic crept into my eyes, despite my desperate desire to maintain my composure.
“Just lean back and let me dance you. Relax and look into my eyes. In this style, the guy does the work.”
So I put my arm around his shoulders and my hand in his. Then I took a deep breath and let go of myself. I had to be loose for this. I had to surrender, to let him hold me and look at me and move me. A few times I tried to pay attention and catch up and do the “right thing” and it just got me all twisted. For this dance to work at all, I really had to let him lead.
I could have fallen in love with him right there. I don’t know why more men don’t learn to dance.
I was wearing ripped jeans and flip flops, but I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so elegant or so graceful or so captivating. There was nothing between us but the dance, but oh, what a dance.
It was one of the most intimate moments of my life, looking into his eyes, being held so close, almost letting him carry me. It was pure and innocent and intense and I’m so grateful for that dance.
It’s a moment that comes back to me in prayer often, that ethereal half hour in the living room. There’s something so beautiful about that image,about the surrender involved in that dance.
I picture myself in the arms of Christ, just being held and adored. I spend my life doing and thinking and achieving, but here it’s enough just to be. There’s so much of me that wants to know what to do next, how to act, what steps to take, but that just makes me stumble. The beauty of dancing with a man who knows how to lead is that all I have to do is look into his eyes and trust.
And so in prayer and in life, I’m trying to lean back. I’m trying to let go of my plans and intentions and desires and to be caught up in his embrace. There, in his arms, I don’t have to do anything but let myself be loved. Dancing through life with him, I don’t have to know the song or the steps. I just have to let go of my obsession with being in control and let him lead.
For years, my relationship with Christ has been a romantic one. It’s the only way I can understand how consumed he is with love for me, the only way I can learn to live and move and have my being in him. Maybe this image of being held and loved and danced won’t work for those of you who see him differently–men especially–but, oh, what a gift it is to find him in prayer and to feel the beauty and the power and the intimacy of that living room dance session in his Eucharistic embrace.
More often than not, the song I hear is a setting of St. Ignatius’ Prayer for Surrender:
Take, oh Lord, and receive
All my liberty, my memory,
My understanding, and my will.
All that I am and all that I possess
You have given to me.
And I surrender it all to you.
Form it to your will.
Give me only your love and your grace!
For with these I am rich enough
And desire nothing more
How perfect.
Irregular
That scar on my arm? I ran into the door. At the library. Just call me Evel Knievel. [↩]
I am not going to do that. Is it bad that I just wrote all about trusting God completely and then drew a line in the sand that I refuse to cross?
But I wanted to be a PRINCESS!!
But I don’t feel guilty about this–not one bit. Which is pretty good for someone who tends to be a bit (a lot) scrupulous. I was tempted to feel like a jerk when I first saw the article. “Oh, man,” I thought, “Now I have to do that.” With a sigh because gosh this surrender thing is just so hard and why do I have to do all the hardest things?
And then I remembered that I don’t. In this instance, because it would be absolutely imprudent for a woman to live on the street and rely entirely on the kindness of others. Sure, God could call me to that. But I’m open and I’ve prayed and I just don’t think he is. And I don’t have to feel bad that he’s letting me have a car and a checking account–it’s his plan, not mine. I don’t have to be the very most appallingly surrendered to Divine Providence to be surrendered.
But there are always people to compare myself to. How about this one:
Have you heard about this girl? That’s Katie Davis. She’s 21. Those are her 13 daughters.
Right?
Seriously, read her entire blog. I’ll wait.
I ran across her story and thought, “Wow. What faith. How beautiful. DEAR GOD PLEASE PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME DO THAT!!!!”
I know, and yesterday I sounded all surrendered to God’s will, right?
But here’s the thing: God desires your joy. Not just in heaven (although that’s his top priority), but here on earth, too. He wants you to love your career and your family and your vocation. Yeah, you’re going to suffer along the way. Some of the time it may seem as though all it is is suffering. But that’s because he’s not willing to trade your eternal joy for temporal comfort. “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world but forfeit his soul?” There’s a reason for the suffering–because he wants you to be happy.
We tend to look at the examples of the long-suffering Saints and think that whatever is hardest and least appealing in life is probably what God wants for us. Just think about how we glorify the martyrs. “Yeah, he got burned alive. But that guy had his fingers bitten off! And that guy was flayed alive! Ooh, and she’s not a martyr, but she used to rub pepper and lye into her skin to make herself ugly and I bet that really hurt!” We glory in their willingness to suffer for Christ and forget that not everyone is called down the path of bloodiest resistance.
Hacked to pieces AND burned alive? Some guys get all the breaks.
You’ve got to remember, friends, that God loves you–truly, madly, deeply, to borrow the words of Savage Garden. He’s not planning out a miserable, painful path to heaven. Really, he’s planning a life that you’ll love. And he created your heart to desire the things he has for you.
Unfortunately, that desire is often coated in a lot of worthless junk that we’ve piled on ourselves. Which means that just because you want something doesn’t mean that’s God’s will. But it does mean that if something sounds terrible and awful and has absolutely no appeal for you because it’s just the worst thing there’s ever been in the history of ever, you can probably leave it alone for a while. Be open and maybe reconsider down the road but don’t assume that because something sounds terrible it must be what you have to do because Jesus died on the cross and so Christianity must be really, really miserable.
I guess the question you have to ask is does this sound horrible because you’re scared and running away from something or does it sound horrible because it’s just not what you were made for? You have to get past your attachment to sin and figure out what’s really going on.
I kind of look like this when I run. Only female, soaked with sweat, and mostly dead.
See, to me, running a marathon sounds like torture. Then death. Then hell. Then being reanimated to suffer it all again. To this guy, it sounds hard (okay, maybe nothing’s hard for him) but not miserable. On the other hand, if you ask me to spend a week–24-7–with teenagers, I’m psyched. I know it’ll be exhausting and hard and probably smelly, but it’s a life-giving kind of hard. And that’s the real difference–does this profession or vocation or promotion or relocation or whatever inspire me? does it make me want to keep going, even when it’s hard? Or do I feel defeated and empty just thinking about it?
What I’m saying is don’t assume something’s “the right thing” just because it’s hard. We aren’t all called to be beggars or run orphanages. But don’t assume it’s “the wrong thing” because it’s hard, either. Anything worth doing is hard. You just have to ask if it’s the kind of hard that makes you want to keep pushing or the kind of hard that makes you want to curl up and die. It’s not that simple all the time, but that’s a good litmus test.
We’re all called to be saints, but we’re not all going to be Saints. You don’t have to be some kind of miracle-working, leper-washing, hair-shirt-wearing superstar to be pleasing to God. And sometimes “trusting God” is code for showing off. If it’s his will, he’ll give you the grace for it, no matter how hard it is. If it’s not, the easy life you’ve got planned might just go all Jumanji on you.
This is not what I meant by a "board game." Ha. Punny.
So I’m not going to join Andrew in his radical poverty (yet). But I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Go ahead and pray on it. Just remember: unless it’s God’s will, doing something crazy doesn’t make you a saint. It just makes you crazy.
If you’ve been paying attention, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I recently packed everything I own into the trunk of my Mazda3 (okay, my mattress pad is in the back seat), waved goodbye to Kansas after a 2 year exile in the flatlands, and headed out to God knows where. I left a job and friends and great students to do…well…I’m not exactly sure what. I know what I’m expecting (speaking and retreats and blogging and whatnot), but all I know for sure is that God asked me to leave and that he’ll take care of the rest. No home, no job. For the time being, I’m living out of the car.*
It’s interesting the kind of reactions I get to this.
Non-religious person: “Oh–wow! That’s really…” stupid? “um…” crazy? “um…great that you’re going to…find yourself. What a wonderful journey.” At which point I feel like a flake and a cliché.
This is totally what prayer does to you.
Nominal Christian: “Oh–wow! That’s amazing! I could never trust God like that. You’re really an inspiration. What a wonderful journey.” At which point I feel like a fake and a fanatic.
Holy Christian: “Nice. I’ll pray for you.” At which point I’m disappointed that they’re not more impressed. (But relieved that they didn’t use the word journey, which is probably my least favorite word in the English language. This might be because every episode of The Bachelor–don’t judge me–uses that word at least 35 times. My sister and I toyed with the idea of a drinking game involving the word “journey” on The Bachelor but decided that even doing it with water might kill us.)
Because this is how you find true love.
This weekend, I got to catch up with a bunch of old friends at Fr. Tom’s ordination and had the humbling experience of repeatedly being asked, “So what are you up to these days?”
It was a real flash back to the last time I had no answer to this question, right after leaving the convent. People kept asking me what I did and I kept having to swallow my pride and tell them I was nannying for my sister’s baby. For a type A fool like me, that was hard. Especially when I saw the look in people’s eyes wondering what on earth I thought I was doing shelling out for a Notre Dame degree (or two) and then living on someone’s futon and working for free.
This weekend, it was much the same. “Well, I just left Kansas…” I’d say.
“Oh, and where are you going now?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know.”
“Oh….”
One kind soul said, “Oh, that’s all right. You’ll figure it out eventually.”
“No!” I couldn’t help responding. “I had it figured out. And it was all great. God just had something better.”
A better woman would have bit her tongue and allowed the world to see her as aimless and flaky. I’m too proud for that. So I explain it all.
“You see, I was teaching. But then I felt that God was calling me to step out on faith and leave that. He asked me to be homeless and unemployed and I had to trust him. So I’m going to be traveling and speaking and blogging and writing a book and I think it’s going to be really great.”
Which, of course, is code for “I’m really holy and trust God a lot and by the way you should invite me to come speak at your church/school/ministry.”
And Christians are suitably impressed and non-Christians are suitably disturbed (which is generally how my life goes) and look at me I’m preaching the Gospel and everyone knows how awesome I am!
Here’s the thing, though: there’s nothing impressive about this.
No, really. That’s not humility (I don’t do humility, more’s the pity). It’s just fact. I serve a God who made the mountains and moves them when he wants, a God who made the sea and the storm and then walked on the waves and calmed them, a God who heals lepers and the blind. My God sent his Son to die for me–why wouldn’t he give me everything I need? (That’s a little Romans 8:32 for you.) What’s scary about living out of my car with a credit card and savings and a bunch of couches to crash on when God provides for people who don’t even take a second tunic?
So when I give everything away and quit my job without any particular destination in mind (which has happened twice now), it’s not so much faithful as smart. You see, somewhere in my 28 years, I figured out that, despite all the impressive things I can put on my resume, I’m actually quite dumb. In everything that matters, anyway. I can’t seem to get past myself enough to see what’s best for me. I spent a good 10 years pining away for a man–any man–before God knocked me over the head to show me something that fits me so much better. I hated myself for most of college because I couldn’t figure out how to stop being me and start being that quiet, pious girl in the chapel. It didn’t occur to me that maybe I was actually made to be me, loud and obnoxious and awkward as I am, that perhaps God actually made me that way because he wanted me that way, not so that I had something to overcome.
You see, I can barely even see who I am now and what I want today, let alone who I was made to be and what I’ll need to be that person. And I’ve fought God and just come out the other side tired and unhappy (and in need of a good confession). But when I’m abandoned to his will–as much as I’ve ever managed to be–there’s something energizing about that. Oh, there’s still suffering. Often there’s more suffering in following God than there is when you turn your back on him. But there’s meaning to that suffering, and purpose, and healing.
And God starts taking care of all the details and mapping out your life for you, with lovely morning greetings like this:
If only God communicated through greeting cards....
Okay, no, it’s not that easy. You’ve still got to discern and, usually, make money and pay bills and work hard. But ultimately, it’s on him. He’s made you that promise: that he will provide. Your job is to pray and love and fight for holiness and never, never to worry.
Believe me when I say this isn’t going to make life easy. Trying to do God’s will–letting go of your own understanding of who you are and surrendering to his truth–is about as hard as it comes. Obedience isn’t easy; but it’s simple. It’s a matter of choosing truth, goodness, and beauty, even at the expense of yourself.
I’m not talking here about how to figure out God’s will. That can be widely different for each person and in each situation (although I talked a little bit about my journey (gag) here). I’m talking about those times when we know what God is calling us to. Maybe that’s obvious stuff like getting help with your porn problem or getting to Mass on Sunday or carrying on a civil conversation with your stepmother. Maybe it’s a matter that took some real discernment like entering religious life, leaving a job, or ending an unhealthy relationship. Maybe it’s something that you’re not sure yet about but it just keeps nagging at you.
I’m sure most of us right now have something that we really know, if we’re being honest with ourselves, we have to do–some change of behavior or major or job or marital status or attitude or diet. Stepping out like that does take faith. But I’m telling you that God always comes through. Always. That’s just who he is. It’s not a matter of learning to trust that he’ll give you what you want–God forbid he should give us what we want! It’s a matter of learning to trust that ultimately–ultimately, not immediately–he’ll bring us to a joy so deep any struggles we may have on the way will pale in comparison.
It doesn’t always seem to make sense. God told Abraham to leave his family and country–and Abraham went. Jesus asked a bunch of fishermen to leave their nets and their boats and their father and go change the world. And they didn’t hem and haw and finish college or build up their savings or wait till the kids were grown first. Immediately they went, Scripture says. At once they left it all behind. Even though they had no idea what he was asking them to do.
But there’s a freedom in that obedience. The freedom of living in God’s will. Freedom from regret or doubt or (eventually and God willing) fear. More importantly, there’s the freedom you give to God to bless you beyond your wildest imaginings. That might be through opportunities he could only give you when you followed him; it might be through the joy of life lived in grace; if might just be through the growth in holiness that comes from following him. Whatever it is, he can’t give it to you (yes, I just said God can’t) until you surrender to him.
If you fix your eyes on Jesus, you can walk on water. So forget your fears and your attachments and your plans and your will and just get off the boat. Maybe you’ll sink. If you do, he’ll catch you. But if you don’t–oh, friend, imagine!
If you’re up for it, I’d love to hear in the comments about what God is calling you to abandon to him. It’ll help me to pray for you 🙂
*I’m actually writing this from the passenger seat of my sister’s car, sitting in the library parking lot using their wireless as my super-ornery niece finally naps in her car seat. I tried books and songs and prayers and pajamas in the middle of the day and lunch and that awkward bend-over-her-stroking-her-back-while-singing-praying-to-God-she-finally-falls-asleep-in-her-crib move and putting John Paul down for his nap in the same room and she just alternated between sobbing in her crib or playing happily out of it. So my sister’s watching John Paul and Cecilia and I are depleting the ozone layer running the engine so we don’t die of heat in this car. In case you wanted to know the inspiration of this post which started off being about living out of my car but doesn’t really seem to be anymore.
So today, fast with me. Maybe it’s too late for you to go water-only or maybe that’s unsafe in your situation. Give up meat for the day or sweets or soda or sitcoms or facebook.3 When we fast, we lend strength to our prayer. We tell God that our intention matters more to us than our flesh does. We’re reminded of our prayer throughout the day; skip a meal and every time your stomach rumbles, you can ask the Lord once again to bless our nation and guide our elections.
And whatever happens, God will still be in control. Perhaps we will face systematic persecution on a large scale, the like of which no church has ever seen in this country. Perhaps the persecution will remain subtle and the temptation will be to continue to leave the poor and the marginalized in our wake. Perhaps this election will be like so many others and very little will change. Whoever our new president is, there will be suffering and joy and frustration and complacency. There will be a cross, made heavier or lighter. But God will still be God.
