Deep in the heart of Texas...

Oh, Texas. It's been a fast one. Quick overview to hit the highlights, with a more reflective blog in the process.

Monday -- Knowing I wouldn't have time at any other point in the week, I hit El Mercado for a specific purchase -- a gift that I'd been contemplating for awhile. Super excited about the gift. Spent the evening with the community. I love spending time with these amazing women.

Tuesday -- Three observations, a midterm and a little more community time.
I remembered how much middle school students make me laugh. Aware that I was there to observe their teacher, two of the seventh graders kept yelling "She's a really good teacher!" and "We learn a lot from her!" in the middle of class.

Two "tee-hee" stories from the Kindergarten. The letter of the day was B ("B says 'buh'!"), and the students were identifying words they know that begin with b. One student said barn. Their teacher asks the students if they could tell her what a barn is. One little guy, who was so excited he could hardly stay "criss-cross-applesauce," announced, "It's a place where animals live, and my mom bought the big barn on FarmVille last night!"

A little while later, during snack, a student who was seated at the table where I was working informed me that my "bracelet has brown beads. Buh-buh-buh!" The girl at the same table asked if she could see it. She then asked if I would take it off, so she could see it. I thought I was going to have to use force to get it out of her fingers. (I did not take it off.)

In Spanish class, I wondered when students in Texas were going to be able to use the phrase, "Hace frio," as it was in the nineties with high humidity each day this week. Today was particularly disgusting.

A few realizations from Wednesday. One, I think I like Texas because they have places named "Mamacita's" and "Bueno Taco!" We don't have that in Ohio. I also wondered if a place like Chipotle really does very well in Texas. Kind of seems like a sell out. Finally, I was rather disappointed by Austin. I don't know why I expected Austin to be different. Driving into Austin from 35 S is kind of like driving into Atlanta on 75 from the south. The hotels just get bigger and closer together, and then you're kind of like, "Oh, hey. I'm downtown. There's where the Longhorns play football." I expected Austin to be more like Cincinnati -- You come through the cut in the hill, and TA-DA! There's the city!

Wednesday was also the day that I stopped in New Braunfels to see Kristen, my friend from high school. We were nearly inseparable the last two years of high school, despite going to different schools. I'm not quite sure I know all of what came between us, but at this point, it's just best to say life took us in different directions. It was very cool to see her and spend some time catching up. What I thought would be a couple hours turned into like four, and I found myself driving back to San Antonio at one in the morning. Totally worth it.

Sooo... a word about rental cars. You really should figure out how to read the gas gauge before you get too close to empty. Because it's quite an adventure to find yourself on 35 in Texas, in the wee hours of the morning, and thinking, "Hmmm... I wonder why that is flashing. OH! That's the low gas indicator!... Crap. How long has that been flashing?" (Much to my relief, I found an open Exxon station, and I pretty much coasted up to the pump.)

The gas light fiasco was followed by turning on the car Thursday morning to find the Check Engine light on. It took Enterprise an hour to decide if I should just drive the car, or if they could find another compact car to bring me. (Apparently, even if the car they give you requires maintenance, they are not giving you a free upgrade for the day!) After an hour of calling back and forth, they told me to go ahead and drive, but provided me with a number "in case the car breaks down or stops running." Wow. That makes me feel spectacular.

Four volunteer fairs over two days -- with mixed results. I'm looking forward to following up with the potential Lalanners that I've met over the past few days. I'm especially loving the group of volunteer service program recruiters who are running the circuits. What a fabulous group of people! Super fun. I'm really looking forward to hanging out with them more next week.

Tonight was a particularly slow fair, and I was privileged to spend about an hour and a half talking to Hector from ACE about the spirituality of art, theological reflection in sketches, visio divina, and sacred art. Amazing conversation. We also talked about prayer forms, prayer journals, stories of saints that we love, icons, cool churches, and Catholic identity at the university level. He's an artist, teaches art, and is teaching a college level course on Theological Reflection through Art.

So I'm pretty sure I'm going to like this recruiting thing...

On Writing and Wandering...

On writing...
I recently read an article about using electronic media to connect to people. It was actually a work thing -- more about "branding" than about really connecting, but a line caught my attention. Basically, if you're going to blog, you have to be committed to it....

Oops.

The crazy thing is I've been writing.

• A paper about God revealed in the Gospel of John (A-, with no comments. Annoying.)
• Three sentence summaries on Gregory of Nyssa, Augustine's Confessions, and Gregory of Nazianzus
• All the copy for the new program brochure
• The FAQs section for the new Lalanne website (Check it: Lalanne. Hopefully the links will be fixed soon.)
• A whole new application
• A lesson plan for teaching lesson planning...

I've done some personal writing, too. A reflection on the Gospel from a few weeks ago -- Who do you say that I am? An email that was an attempt to explain some of the wild pitches that came up in life recently -- it ended up being so confusing, even to me, that I never sent it. A blog about drawing lessons that is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I've ever composed, and at the same time, contains so much of my heart that I'm fearful to let others read it. And a half-finished reflection on today's (mmmkay... after midnight. Yesterday's) Gospel about divorce, and my struggle to reconcile the message of that Gospel with my own life experience.

But this comment on being committed has nagged at me for a few weeks now.

And on wandering...

I am about to embark on a whirlwind recruiting adventure. Between now and the end of the month, I will visit something like 13 different college campuses in five states, all in the hopes of recruiting fabulous teachers who want to serve in under-resourced Catholic schools. And I'm sure many a marvelous and hysterical thing will occur as I gallivant about.

So this is my commitment. At least two posts a week while I'm off on the recruiting extravaganza. Let the adventure begin!

Sound bites.

Things I've heard and chewed on in the past week or so:

"The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain." (The Book Thief by Markus Zusak)

"May we all be more Christ-like."

"I have often wished that all the people I love could all be in one place, but then I realized that the place I love may not be the place my loved ones love so I guess that wouldn't work." "Maybe that's your soul, longing for heaven. All of the people you love, in one place."

"And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold, and will inherit eternal life." (Mt. 19:29)

"God has been saying, 'I know you. I know what you need. And I've shown you in this way, and in this way, and in this way. Now I need you to trust me. Trust that I've put you where I want you, and be present in that.'" (Thanks, Em.)

"She's a trouble maker. That's her charism."

"As soon as I lie down, I fall peacefully asleep." (Ps. 4:9)

"There is a gigantic difference between earning a great deal of money and being rich." (Marlene Dietrich

"As a result of this, many of his disciples returned to their former way of life and no longer accompanied him. Jesus then said to the Twelve, "Do you also want to leave?" Simon Peter answered him, "Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and are convinced you are the Holy One of God." (Jn. 6:66-69)

**To those who provided these sound bytes, thank you for inspiring me, challenging me, and loving me. You make my life richer, and I am grateful.

peace at last

Last night, I ran into someone from my past. My connection to this woman is actually through her son, with whom I spent a fair amount of time during my last two years of high school. It has probably been seven or eight years since I last saw her. It took a minute, but when she recognized me, I was greeted by a huge hug, followed by the barrage of six million questions in about thirty seconds: Howareyou?wherehaveyoubeen?whathaveyoubeendoing?

Six years ago, this week, I left Ohio newly married. Twenty seven months ago, this week, I returned, newly divorced. In between, I lived in two states, had three jobs, took 15 hours worth of graduate courses, was fully initiated into the Catholic Church, met new people, made new friends, lost track of others. With all the life changes, I changed. I grew up, matured, lived life, got hurt, healed, forgave, walked away, realized fears and dreams, let go of old beliefs...

I've spent the last twenty seven months trying to figure out how to be the "new" me on "old" turf. I struggled, at times, to navigate between people who knew me "before," and those who met me "after." I couldn't quite figure out how the pieces of my life, so different and so important, fit together now. As a result, my typical reaction to the bombarding questions was to be vague.

I'm fine. Yes, I'm back from Florida. No, I'm not teaching. It has been a long time.

But last night -- for the first time -- as the questions rained down upon me, I didn't feel the need to avoid them. In fact, if we hadn't been standing in the middle of 50+ toddlers, all clean and shiny for a baby beauty contest, I probably would have said, "Grab a drink, and pull up a chair. Have I got some tales to tell you."

Winners never quit... but I did.

I have a confession to make.

I quit my last job, because I felt completely and totally inadequate.

To be fair, that’s a gross oversimplification of the situation. I had another job offer, and the position was a great opportunity for me. However, I wouldn’t have even considered applying for this position if it weren’t for my feelings of inadequacy in my old position.

I was a Coordinator of Religious Education and Youth Ministry for a parish. Originally, when I interviewed for the job, I was interviewing for the Coordinator of Religious Education position – a position where I was confident that my skills and experience qualified me to do the job. I went to the interview thinking, based on the job description, that the parish wanted to hire someone to do a lot of work for a little money. I left the interview thinking that it had been the worst interview in my life, and that the pastor did not like me. At all. Much to my surprise, I was offered the position. Also, to my surprise, the position now included youth ministry.

No biggie, I thought. I was formally trained as a high school teacher; I LOVE junior high and high school youth. I get them. I love God. I can make this work. I can figure it out. It would take a lot of prayer and preparation, but if this is what God was calling me to do, I could make it happen. I was so wrong.

Maybe that’s not quite fair, either. Because I do love youth, and I do love God, and there have been moments when I was a good youth minister. And God did, as God always does, make things happen. But I never could figure out how to minister to the youth in this parish.

I literally would leave Youth Ministry events in tears. I would go home, collapse in my bed, and either fall straight to sleep from sheer exhaustion, or cry because I was so frustrated, devastated, and just… confused. How do you balance fun time and God time? How do I share Jesus, when the majority of those who show up just wanted to have fun? Just “living the Gospel” only seemed to go so far. How could I make God fun? How could I not be a sell out to making youth ministry just another social club? How do I meet the needs of each youth, when they were all over the place in knowledge and faith formation, even in physical and cognitive development? How could I build relationships with them, so that I earned the right for my voice to be heard? I wanted to share Christ with these kids… and I was so, so, so tired trying to do it. God is good, all the time? God was exhausting, all the time.

I could get kids to love English. I helped a kid who had never read an entire book in his fourteen years of life connect to characters so strongly that he read not one, but three entire novels – in two days. I was privileged to witness a girl, who had been repeatedly abused sexually, find her voice and her strength through paper and pen, slowly finding healing and redemption, one couplet at a time. I could teach kids to conjugate verbs, write a well-supported essay, and cite sources used in research. I could introduce youth to the world of symbolism and metaphor through literature. I couldn’t introduce youth to Christ, or teach them about His Church. And it killed me. Because that was far more important than writing and reading well. There was nothing I wanted more than to be a good youth minister – not for my own sake. But for the sake of the youth, and because it was, I believed, sacred and holy work that was entrusted to me. It wasn’t about me. But that made it so much more important to do it and do it well.

It seemed the more time I committed to the work, the worse the outcome. And I constantly felt like it was ready to just take off, to explode with growth, if I could just manage to squeeze in one more meeting, wrangle up a few more volunteers, scrounge up a few more dollars for the budget… But on the inside, I felt like a complete failure. And I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t have time to do the things I knew needed to be done, and I couldn’t achieve “good youth ministry” without those things. How many more times could I say I was leaving it up to the Holy Spirit to work with what was there, when I wasn’t really doing my part, putting in the time and attention the ministry – and the youth – deserved? So I quit.

The first emotion was relief. The second was disappointment. Relief that this pressure was removed. Disappointment, because I failed.

I had plenty of other good reasons for taking the position I have now – and I did pray a goodly amount before just up and leaving the parish position. I do believe that God was calling me to this position (Though sometimes, in the back of my mind, I wonder if that sense of calling was real, or just a way to let myself off the hook, so to speak, with youth ministry. And I’m pretty sure God has assured me that God is the one doing the calling around here.) But of all the important decisions I've ever made, this is the one that I find myself analyzing the most. Since taking on my new position, I have volunteered in youth ministry, both at my former parish and in other capacities, and I truly love it. It's fulfilling and energizing and wonderful. I often have the thought, "When I'm a professional youth minister again...," even though I am perfectly happy in my current position. And I'm completely ashamed to discuss why I left youth ministry to begin with, because as blessed as I am to do the work I'm doing now, in the back of my mind and the depths of my heart, I feel like I gave up, let people down, abandoned those youth...

A couple weeks ago, the Gospel message was from John 6, the Bread of Life discourse. It is one of my favorite passages from Scripture, despite, or perhaps because of, its dense theological implications. But it was one single sentence that caught my attention and stuck with me: “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.” (John 6:29)

The first emotion was relief. The second was disappointment. Relief that I just need to believe in Jesus. Disappointment because… all I need to do is believe in Jesus, and the rest will work out. Because it’s not about me.

Faith is not a feel good thing. It’s not about being happy, or satisfied, or even accomplished – I mean, sometimes you get that. But that’s not the entirety of faith. Faith is about seeking God and God’s will, continuing to develop a relationship, living the Paschal Mystery – a constant cycle of dying and rising, sorrow and joy. The work of God is believing in Christ. Even when everything else seems to be falling apart. Plenty of good things are promised – love, joy and peace, for example -- but that promise comes in the context of taking up a cross. Daily.

I don’t necessarily think I should have stuck it out at the parish. I am fairly confident that the issues that were there needed a fresh set of eyes, and, more importantly, a renewed spirit. And maybe that’s where the reading from this past weekend comes into play: “Get up and eat, else the journey will be too long for you! (I Kings 19:7b)

God knows what the journey will bring…

*Disclaimer: This was post was very difficult to write. I've thought about this a lot, and I don't quite know what it all means. If it doesn't make sense, well... that's real for me. Thanks for playing along.

...And my Saint of the Day is... St. Vincent de Paul!

Scavenger Hunt Victories!

I went on a Scavenger Hunt today. Really, I was looking for inexpensive furniture that is still in good shape to furnish the San Antonio service house. Specifically, I was looking for a sofa, a table with six chairs, a dryer, three desks, a television, and an armoir (maybe). (We had solved the Mystery of the Missing Refrigerator by this point.)

So the plan of action was that I would check out some thrift stores and, if need be, the Giant Retailer of Cheap Crap Who Shall Not Be Named (because I despise shopping there... for many sound and additionally not-so-sound reasons.) When I found each item, I was to text message one of the principals, who was taking care of purchase and transportation for the Archdiocese. Said principal was at a beginning of the year principal shindig, and she would come for purchase and pick up as soon as she was able.

Sidebar: We were really concerned about being able to locate this furniture before all the teachers arrived, and still staying within our budget. Nothing quite says, "Welcome to our city!" like coming to a house without furniture. We were especially worried about tracking down a dryer and a sofa for a decent price.

After meeting one of the teacher's at the house to distribute keys, I set out on my adventure. My first stop was a thrift store fairly close to where the principals were having their pre-year meeting. I found the location easily, grabbed my notepad and cell phone, and strolled into the store. There was a sign marking the furniture section. Easy enough.

I found a sofa. It was green/red/cream plaid. The chairs are green, so this wouldn't be terrible. The tag was marked $199.99 "As Is." The "As Is" made me nervous. What was wrong with it? I pushed on the frame, smooshed the cushions, and searched for tears. Nothing. The only thing wrong with this sofa is that it was... well... dirty. But the price would keep us on track with our budget.

I texted Principal, letting her know that I had located a sofa. I told her the price, and explained the condition, noting that we could try to clean it, or we could just get a slipcover. After sending her a photo message, she said to try to find a cover for it. We'd take it. Sofa: Check.

After leaving the store, Principal sent me another message, asking if there was a table and chairs that would work. I responded that there was one set that had four chairs for $199, but I wanted to see what the other store had before making that call; I was on my way to St. Vincent de Paul.

Sidebar: When I went to Detroit with a group from Cincinnati to do Young Neighbors in Action, my service site was a St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store. The store manager at that site was meticulous about what went on her floor. Having worked for a week in the store, I recognized how much work went into running the thrift store, and how that work was truly a labor of love. I really, really, really, really, wanted to support another Catholic organization, especially SVdP, but I knew that I had to put the budget before my heart.

SVdP in San Antonio is not easy to find, and even harder to get in the parking lot. It is essentially the only thing in between two busy cross streets on a four lane street, right next to I-10. I walked into the store, and realized immediately that it was substantially smaller than the store where we had done our service in Detroit. I walked the aisle between dining tables and a row of televisions, disappointed to not see a table with more than four chairs. I turned to head out of the store, when I saw a "room tableau" (as they were called in Detroit), with a nice sofa, loveseat and chair. Surely, I thought, this is too much. The whole set was $275. For $75 more, we would get two additional pieces of furniture -- and this was nicer stuff than what was at the other store! I immediately sent a text message to Principal. Abort mission to other store; go directly to St. Vincent de Paul, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Wait. Collect $200 if someone is giving it out. The school could definitely use it.

After texting and then calling Principal to make arrangements (and deciding to just take one of the tables with four chairs...), I call Boss to tell her our good fortune. St. Vincent is smiling on us, I say. I flip the phone shut, satisfied and excited with the Furniture Find of the Year just in time to see a new table being placed on the floor... and SIX chairs are on the dolly!

I walked over to the store manager, who was supervising the set up, and announced that I wanted to purchase the table with six chairs, and I would also take the living room set. Her eyes lit up. "Really!?" Obviously, this store needed some sales, and this sale would make their day. We chatted briefly about the teacher-service program, I explained that I was waiting on a truck, and the truck would also bring the person with the check. She was thrilled to be helping out an organization that worked with Catholic schools. While I was waiting, she brought me a soda and some cookies.

When Principal arrived in her truck, I met her outside, and walked in with her. "Hey!" she exclaimed, warmly greeting the store manager. "This is my truck driver!" I explained. The store manager, who had demonstrated such hospitality and gratitude for the purchase, is a parent of one of the students at Principal's school. A school where one of our teachers serves. One of our teachers, who will come home to a comfortable house, because of the great service provided by St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store. A service made possible by the intense efforts of store managers like this parent.

Indeed, St. Vincent was smiling on us. God does really awesome things. Sometimes we get to see those sacred interactions first hand, and that is truly awesome.

From bread to Body

I grew up in the Church of the Brethren. In the church where I grew up, they only celebrated communion – they called it Love Feast – twice a year. (The twice a year, from what I understand, was a congregational choice rather than a denominational doctrine.) One of these was always Maundy Thursday, and the second, as I recall, fell sometime in October, usually on a Sunday evening. There would be a period of preparation in the sanctuary, after which everyone would move to the Fellowship Hall. All of the women would sit at tables at the far end of the room, and all of the men would sit at tables at the other end. (I don’t know why it was separate. A nod to Old Testament roots? Maybe.) I recall it being a dark event – the lights would be off and there would be several candles on each table.

The Love Feast began with a simple meal. It was some sort of beef with broth. There was white bread mixed in, and while I generally despise soggy bread, there was something amazing about this. I remember thinking it was the best food I’d ever tasted.

After the meal, basins of water were brought out to each table, and we’d wash each others’ feet. (As someone with extremely ticklish feet who risked the disapproving glares of mother and grandmother for giggling, I hated this part.) A basin of water for washing hands followed the foot washing.

Then, it was time for the “Love Feast.” Lined up down the center of each table were a set of wooden blocks. There were four circles cut out of each of the blocks, which held thimble-sized cups of grape juice. Stacked in between the cups were two pieces of unleavened bread.

The bread was made the day before “Love Feast” by the wives of the deacons. (Or maybe the day of. Those details are blurry at this point. )I was never allowed in the church kitchen while this was happening, but I recall some mixing, putting it into jelly roll pans, baking it in the oven, and then cutting it into the pieces that fit snuggly between the two rows of little cups. I think maybe a fork was used to “perforate” each piece. During the “Love Feast,” at the appropriate time, people on opposite sides of the table would each hold an end of the piece of bread while the story of the Last Supper was read from a Gospel. When the reader said, “Do this in memory of me,” we would break the bread, like splitting a wishbone. (Really. It was just like that.) And the bread was very, very chewy. Dense. Strange.
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My first experience of receiving communion every Sunday was in the Lutheran church, with High School Boyfriend. Even though it was more recent, the details are less clear. (By more recent, I mean, nearly ten years ago.) I seem to remember there being one loaf of bread, which Pastor Terri (Yes, a woman.) would tear in half during the prayers (Again, blurry details. It was like the Eucharistic prayer, but Lutheran? ) and then each person would come up and tear off a piece of the bread. Or maybe she would tear off the piece and hand it to us. Seriously, can’t remember. The bread was a normal loaf of bread. I mean, not split-top, sandwich sliced bread. But it was… bread. Fluffy, soft, crusty.

There were the thimble-sized cups again, but these were filled with wine. I do remember the first time I received communion in the Lutheran church, High School Boyfriend said, “Remember, it’s real wine.” I waved him off; it wasn’t a big deal. I may have been from a grape juice kind of church, but how bad could a little wine be? I took the cup, drank the smaller-than-a-shot amount of wine… and I coughed. I thought my chest was on fire. And my ears. And my face was beet read. (Okay, so we know I wasn’t drinking alcohol during my high school days…)
__________________________________________

My first Mass was in the chapel of one of the Marianist houses on campus. I assisted one of the brothers with his class during the first semester of my second year, and he had invited me to dinner as a gesture of gratitude. Mass would take place before dinner, and I was also invited for Mass. I explained that I wasn’t Catholic; that I’d never been to Mass. He said it was okay; they wouldn’t bring out the snakes on my first visit. (Really. He said that.) There were maybe ten people present the first time I encountered the Eucharist. All I remember is being completely overwhelmed by the responses.

My second encounter was just a few weeks later – Christmas on Campus Mass. There were, seemingly, ten thousand people present. (Maybe not 10,000. But a lot. The place was packed.) It was there, in those weeks before Christmas, with a two hundred person choir, (Again, maybe not quite that many, but a lot.) and a poinsettia procession, and liturgical dancers, that I realized there was something different about this communion that I could not receive. I remember watching the people leave their seats, file past me, receive this mysterious wafer, and return to their seats. It was different. I didn’t understand how. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t receive it. But I knew it was different.

About a year prior to my first Mass experience, I had started questioning matters of faith. I never questioned the existence of God. I knew God was real. But I wasn’t sure that I believed everything I had been taught to believe about God. I assumed the questions I was asking would be answered in ways that would affirm that which I had believed my entire life. When my questions kept leading to a comparison between what I was raised with, and what the Catholic Church taught, I figured it was just a matter of environment. I was, after all, at a Catholic university. I was terrified at the first inkling that maybe, just maybe, God was calling me to the Catholic Church.

I was at Christmas on Campus Mass, because my boyfriend’s parents had invited us to join them. Boyfriend didn’t show up. Jesus did.

For the first time in my life, “I am the Bread of Life,” made perfect sense. “This is my body,” did not really mean “This is a piece of bread that represents my body.” It meant, “This is my body.” And that was confusing. Terrifying, even.

As I progressed through RCIA (three times, over five years), Real Presence was not something I struggled to embrace. (The Mass response, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed,” on the other hand… that was devastating. ) The journey, the thought process, the whole experience of conversion is another post (or ten), but by the time I received Eucharist for the very first time, I believed that Christ was truly present. It was in my third year of working in parish ministry, however, that I really, in a very real, tangible way, came to understand Christ present in the Eucharist.

One of my responsibilities as CRE was to be a Eucharistic minister during the PREP Masses. As I distributed the Body of Christ on that Monday evening in October, I became very aware of people’s hands.

“The Body of Christ.”

Rough, cracked, calloused hands of the parish maintenance man, slightly stained from the days of working in dirt and grease and grime.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Pale, fragile hands of the elderly woman, a matriarch to this parish. Her skin translucent, slightly blue from the visible veins. Her fingers, slightly gnarled from arthritis.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Smooth, young hands of a fourth grader. Also slightly blue, but from ink rather than veins.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Thick, strong hands of a farmer. Perfectly manicured, gold and diamond laden hands of the Room Mom. Tiny, hesitant hands of third graders.

“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”

All of these hands reaching out. Reaching for Jesus. Jesus. Not a chewy representation. Not ordinary bread. They wanted Jesus. The Christ. And they were reaching out to him. In the Eucharist.

“I am the Bread of Life.”

“This is the Body of Christ.”

Amen.