The Art of Being Busy

First things first: I'm currently writing this blog while sitting on the couch in my apartment, watching an episode of Parenthood on Netflix and eating grain-free granola with almond milk. Someone please tell me how I can be a little more of a Millenial. *self-five* Glad we're all on the same page.

So, I've been having the same recurring conversations a lot lately. They go more or less like this:

"Hey! Sorry we haven't caught up in a while. I've been so busy! How are you?"
"I'm good, just so busy too! How are you?"
or
"Hey! I miss seeing you! Life is too busy. When can we get together?"
"I miss seeing you too! Things are just so busy. Once everything settles down, we definitely should get together!"

I feel like I have some variation of those conversations at least every other day for the past... several months. Maybe longer. And it's true. I'm super busy. To be sure, I make time for episodes of Parenthood and the occasional night out with friends; but overall? Busy busy busy. We're all busy.

Today I was seeking a few minutes of solace in some quiet prayer before the start of a busy weekend. Apparently St. Francis de Sales said, "Half an hour's meditation each day is essential, except when you are busy. Then a full hour is needed." To which I say: LOL. Maybe someday I'll be a baller like you, St. Francis, but today is not that day. I cut my prayer time short today because I have too much to do. And by today I mean for the past month. But I digress.

While I was there, I ran into a friend - someone I have been meaning to catch up with and get together with for, oh, months now. We both apologized to each other for not having gotten together yet, and recited the mantra: "Things have just been so crazy and busy!" And its true. Things have been crazy; we both lead very busy lives on somewhat bizarre schedules.

But it hit me right then: I'm getting really tired of answering questions like "how are you?" and "what's new?" with "I'm busy!" Sure, it's true that my life is very full. But since when did "busy" become a defining characteristic of me? If you just met me, you might start to think that the hierarchy of defining characteristics in my life goes something like this:
1. Busy
2. Worker
3. Beloved child of God
4. Daughter, sister, friend, etc.

I joked with my friend about it, but then I took it to prayer for a few minutes. It's true that I'm busy... we're all really busy. Part of it is just life - real life takes work, and this elusive, ambiguous time in the future where things will "settle down" does not exist. There will always be more to do on this side of Heaven. So, that much is true. Life is busy. But in addition to that, could there not be a part of us that likes being busy - maybe a bit too much?

"I'm so busy." I like to be busy. I don't really know how to not be busy. What do I do if I have nothing to do? It makes me anxious.

"I'm so busy." I cling to my busyness and keep it like a blanket around me. Being busy makes me feel useful; being useful makes me feel like I have worth. Can't let go of that. Busy is safe.

"I'm so busy." What if nobody needs me? Will they still want me around/like me/approve of me? Will I still have value? Am I doing enough things to be loved?

"I'm so busy." If I'm not busy, will I have to actually answer those questions? Will I have to be honest with myself and with God about where I'm finding my worth? Yikes. No, thanks. I'll stay busy.

I don't have the answer for you guys yet. Well, actually the answer is pretty clear. What I don't have is the solution. But anyway, that's what I'm chewing on these days. And I've been too busy to write a blog post for months now, so... there you have it.

The Man Who Changed My Life

I propose to you the option of love, which is the opposite of escape. Pope St. John Paul the Great

It was 2004, and the summer before my freshman year of high school.

Earlier that year - thanks to Confirmation preparation, a priest who wasn't afraid to tell us about Christ, and a long story that could be its own blog post - I had become fascinated by and drawn into the Church. I knew next to nothing, but had spent the better part of that year eagerly soaking up anything I could find that would teach me about God, the Church, prayer... Googling what an apparition was and secretly reading this little book on how to pray the Rosary, memorizing beautiful prayers I found like the Anima Christi, going to Adoration even though I had zero idea what the Thing on the altar was, and of course trying the old "read-the-Bible-cover-to-cover" trick (kudos to anyone who has actually managed to complete that task at some point in their life... I did not).

The Holy Spirit had me in his net, as CS Lewis would say, and I was being drawn in.

But back to the summer.

We were on a pilgrimage through Europe, starting in Fatima, Portugal, traveling through Spain, and then on to Lourdes, France. I loved Fatima, and it was there that I most strongly felt the presence and love of Mary. I can't fully explain it, and I've never felt it as strongly since; but even if I never do again, and though I'm not one of those people with deep devotion to the Blessed Mother (I wish I were), that experience was strong and real enough to assure me, probably for the rest of my life, of her help and love for me.

The rest of the pilgrimage was, of course, amazing (it was Europe, and I was 13!), and a ton of fun. After a day trip to Assisi, we were finishing up the trip in Rome, where we were going to have an audience with the Pope. Now, I had pretty much zero concept of the Pope. I had heard the name of Pope John Paul II, mostly in preparation for this trip, but I knew surprisingly little about him for all my Church-fact Googling. I was excited, because it was all part of the trip, but I was also 13 years old, so meeting an old guy was not necessarily what I anticipated being the highlight of my time in Rome.

Unfortunately, due to the, erm, cultural differences between Italians and Americans, there was some confusion between the taxi driver and whoever went to pick up our tickets for the private audience, so meeting the Pope personally wasn't in the cards for us. (To be honest, I'm far more bummed about that now than I was then. Back then, I was actually kind of glad because I thought it was going to be kind of boring.) But we had front row seats for the General Audience, and we headed to St. Peter's Square in the dead heat of a Roman July to see the Pope.

And now, the point of this blog post. I can't explain in very clear words what happened that day, but just the sight of Pope John Paul II changed my life.

It was the last summer of his life, only about 9 months before he would die; he was feeble, sickly, and weighed down by Parkinson's disease and years of giving himself to the last drop. But as he rode through the crowd in the Popemobile, and as I watched him up on the platform, it was like my heart was going to burst through my chest with the realization that this man had found the key to life - and there was something beyond myself that I had to live for.

His face was like a light - he was old and decrepit but there was something else to his eyes that I could see even from far away and even through his disease. It was like they transmitted hope to me - and it welled up inside of me, and I knew that there was a God, there was a Heaven, that this was Truth, and that God was Love. This man knew the answers to all of my questions, and I wanted what he had found - and I wanted every last drop of it that I could get.

When they announced certain groups that were present in the audience that day, our group was among those announced. "Pilgrims from Transfiguration Youth Group, in the United States of America." We cheered. At the sound of a group of young people, he used what seemed like every ounce of strength he had to lift his head, smile, and lift his shaking hand in a wave towards our group. It was so simple - it was just a wave - but it struck me so much that I remember the image vividly in my mind even now, 11 years later. Now, with several more years of theological vocabulary under my belt, I would say that I was struck by his sacrificial love; it was a small gesture, but it required colossal effort and maybe even pain on his part, but he did it - for us. So we would know he loved us. So we would know Christ loved us.

I think it must have been my first real encounter with joy that day - not just happiness, but true joy - and I remember crying just because I was so overwhelmed by it all. From that day forward there was no going back for me, and thus went the story of my real beginning on this wild ride of a Christian life.

Saint John Paul the Great changed my life. His presence drew people to Christ, and I saw in him the unfailing and transformative love of God. I love to read his homilies and messages, and I know now that he was a man of deep theology. But in moments of darkness and confusion I still return to that day in my mind and the light in his eyes and the hope in my heart when I saw him, and the memory of that experience stops the vertigo and centers me; to this day, it still brings me confident assurance, more than any academic theology, that there is a God, there is a Heaven, this is Truth, and God is Love.

He chose the option of love, always; and as I experience more of life, I realize more and more how painful that can sometimes turn out to be, and how tempting is the option of escape. But remembering that day, I still want what he had - and I still want every drop of it that I can get, whatever that's going to mean for me. I hope, with his prayers, to be able to be even a fraction of that light to others in the time I'm given on this earth.

JPII - we love you! Happy first feast day.

Startled

Lord, catch me off guard today. 

Surprise me with some moment of beauty or pain.

So that at least for the moment I may be startled into seeing that 

you are here in all your splendor, 

always and everywhere,

barely hidden,

beneath,

beyond,

within

this life I breathe.

Amen.

(Frederick Buechner)

Awake, O Sleeper.

...He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: “Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.”

I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be separated...

Optimism

Christian optimism is not a sugary optimism, nor is it a mere human confidence that everything will turn out alright. It is an optimism that sinks its roots into an awareness of our freedom, and the sure knowledge of the power of grace. It is an optimism that leads us to make demands on ourselves, to struggle to respond at every moment to God's call.

St. Josemaria Escriva

 

Goals for today:

1. Be optimistic. 

#ashtag

Don't worry, this post isn't a list of things you should give up for Lent. I have a hard enough time determining what I should give up for Lent, let alone making suggestions for you, too. And anyway, it's Ash Wednesday - hopefully you've figured all of that out by now. (If not, no judgement...we've all been there.)

My sincerest apologies to Blogdom for my long absence. Consistency isn't my greatest attribute, it's true; but hey, I'm working on it.

I have several posts on my dashboard that I've started and want to finish, but today I crashed my car into a fence. And since this blog is where I reflect on my life and God's presence in it, it seemed like an appropriate decision to put the other posts on hold in order to tell you the story of my ridiculously and unintentionally penitential start to Lent.

This morning I woke up and was on a Lenten roll. I successfully did not hit my snooze button, [consequently] had time to pray, remembered to fast, wrote a couple things on my gratitude board, AND got out the door on time. What! I hit a slight snag when I walked outside and saw that it was snowing freaking again again and I had to brush off my car, but I joked about it and went on my merry way. I was the freaking boss of Ash Wednesday so far.

Well, about 5 minutes into my drive, I hit a patch of snow on the ground and lost control of my car. First, my car swerved into the next lane and I almost collided head-on with an oncoming car. I guess I turned my wheel to compensate (? I don't really know what happened... it was all, "Jesus take the wheel!" up in there), and then I was spinning and all I could see was snow. The only thing I remember is yelling out, "Jesus please help me!" and then my car eventually slid to a stop right into a fence and right before a bunch of trees. I think I also hit a sign at some point.

After a couple seconds of shock, I realized that I had very narrowly missed ending up with the fence in my driver's side door. (I also realized that the fence was the fence around the cemetery where my grandmother is buried. It's been awhile since I've come there to pray, but I'm thinking there MUST be easier ways for her to get my attention.)

After calling my parents & all the necessary people (and taking a little bit of time to pray with my grandma, as long as I was unexpectedly there), eventually my parents and a nice man with a pick up helped dig and push me out.

I'm fine. My car is also fine, aside from being decently scratched up. My rockstar Guardian Angel deserves overtime pay, and I certainly feel like I was protected from what could have been a far greater catastrophe, for which I am super grateful. This was definitely not the penance I had in mind this morning to start off Lent, but all in all, aside from being traumatizing for me (I think my heart is still beating higher than normal), it really wasn't that big of a deal.

But nothing puts things into perspective like feeling as though you've narrowly been preserved from death, and my introvert-self has been reflecting on that today.

Sure, I was definitely beasting-it at Ash Wednesday and my Lent was off to a great start, but the more important thing is, to what end? If it's not to make space for Christ, then I'm wasting my time. It would be better, I think, for me to try to be faithful to even one little thing for the sake of growing closer to Christ, and even to fail at that, than to be trying and succeeding at many sacrifices this Lent but only for the sake of proving to myself how self-disciplined I am.

Listen, this isn't #trueconfessions; I'm not necessarily saying that I was focused on myself this morning. But I am saying that I feel like that's probably not a bad question for me and my conscience to deliberate every evening. Because after my over-dramatic self saw my life flash before my eyes for a brief couple of moments this morning, the phrase "remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return" made some very poignant sense to me as I got my ashes today.

The desire of my best-self is to be a saint. Most of the time, that desire pretty much remains just a desire, and though it hopefully influences my actions, I don't go to super great lengths to accomplish it. There are other desires I tend to pursue a little more actively, and sanctity begins to lose pride of place; it's just the human condition, you know? But the Church has given me 6 whole painful torturous beautiful weeks to play that particular desire out in concrete action, beginning with reminding me that I have an expiration date - and eventually my status as saint or not-saint will be a reality.

"Rend your hearts, not your garments, and return to the Lord, your God."
"Now is the acceptable time. Now is the day of salvation."

Happy Lent, peeps. #ashtag

Hurry Up and WAIT.

I know I've pretty much ignored this blog for the past month and a half, but you'll have to just let bygones be bygones because I have no good excuses. And also because ADVENT!

World, I am so. pumped. that it's Advent! I don't mean to sound like a weirdo... but seriously though - I love the seasons of the liturgical year. It's exciting to have more things to celebrate, and a new season also occasionally brings with it that kick in the pants that I need to actually change things in my life or focus on certain areas in my life that I've been meaning to get around to doing for, oh, I don't know, however many months it's been since the last change of seasons.

In the last few years, I've come to particularly love Advent. I love the theme of hope that permeates the whole season. It's a season of penance, but in a gentler and quieter way than Lent - which is sometimes the way my heart needs to receive it.

Also, I'm not very good at waiting (collective gasp of shock and awe from those who know me) and Advent is a whole 4-week season of the year that helps me learn how to do that.

Yes, World, it's true: patience is decidedly not my strongest virtue. (In my defense, it's really just a sub-virtue.)  But yet here it is, a whole season where we live palpably in the "already-not yet" tension that is the life of faith. Jesus came and He's here and we remember it, but also He's coming again and we're getting ready for it, and also He comes to us every day and we're trying to be always ready for it...

In other words, the Church is all like, "Hey, hurry up and WAIT."

...like I said, not my strongest virtue. However, at Mass this past Sunday the homily struck me. Well, the homily covered a lot of things, but the end of it particularly struck me. The priest ended by saying that this time of Advent is really up to us, because the Lord is always coming to us; so may we always find ourselves saying "Come, Lord Jesus!" at every moment of our lives.

Ok, so maybe that sounds a lot like any other Advent homily you've heard. But this year they got me. As I was reflecting on it,  I started by just asking myself whether or not I truly say "Come, Lord Jesus," at every moment. And then that annoying darn wonderful Holy Spirit started stirring in my heart a little bit and I started thinking not just about whether I say "Come, Lord Jesus" at every moment, but whether I am truly saying it in every aspect of my life.

What I mean to say is, What parts of my life am I not so keen on inviting Jesus into? Where am I not really willing to wait for Him?

Listen, I love the Baby Jesus and Christmas, and I want the Second Coming because Lord-have-mercy this world can get tiring, and I love the Eucharist and I want Jesus to come into my life daily with His grace and His glory and I want His presence with me at all times -- but, you know, there are those parts of my life where I'm pretty sure I have a good idea about what I want and how to achieve it. Come, Lord Jesus? If I'm honest, I think I'm more likely to be caught saying, "Nothing to see here, Lord Jesus!" And if I do manage to say "Come, Lord Jesus," I whisper it very quietly and add "Come, Lord Jesus... but like seriously, don't mess things up, ok?" or "Come, Lord Jesus... come help me with my plan. (And please do it like 5 minutes ago!)"

And I think that's where we end up anxious. Or at least, that's how I end up anxious. I don't have the theological quotations to back myself up on this, but I'd be willing to bet that having peace in your soul is more of a matter of the openness of your heart to the Holy Spirit than of anything else. If I take a serious look at what areas of my life make me the most anxious, the answer is obvious: it's the areas I refuse to invite Christ into, the areas I try to maintain control of just because I'm afraid of what He'll do if I hand over the reins. 

But in reality, I'm just shooting myself in the foot because Christ is the only source of peace. There isn't another. And the sooner I fully believe that, the better.

Easier said than done, #amirite? I mean realistically, it's hard to just "not feel anxious". Feelings are not things we can necessarily control, at least not when they first come. But we do have the ability to decide what to do with them. Perhaps rather than either dwelling in anxiety and worry or suppressing it, a better option would be to enter in and ask, Have I allowed Christ in here at all?

And what better time than Advent to unclench the fists and start saying, "Come, Lord Jesus"? 

Back in September, I did a little personal experiment. That experience affected me profoundly, and I still continue to try to practice that intentional fearlessness in my life now (though September is long over!). Perhaps I will make this effort to invite Christ into my "control-areas" my Advent/December experiment. And just maybe I'll continue the practice long after Advent ends.

Because when I know Who I'm waiting for, and Who I'm waiting with - and, let's be real, Who is waiting for me - the waiting will probably not seem quite so terrible. I might even get better at it.

Have a blessed Advent season, y'all!