Of Mice and Music

I'm on my third tube of mascara this summer. 

We've not had any fancy dates and I've spent most of the past few weeks in either pajamas or sweaty activewear (which does not bode well with an oversensitive post-Covid nose), so there's actually been very little make-up-wearing around these parts. I'm on my third tube because my hygienic little young'uns have been spreading the wealth that is pink eye not once, but TWICE this summer, thus infecting the fancy-pants cosmetics my mom bought me. Mom, if you're reading this, don't worry. I purchased some more of the good stuff rather than cheaping out. 

This past spring, however, I actually was wearing makeup. And real clothes. And showering before the kids were awake. Ah, life was grand before the baby decided to boycott his co-sleeper and nurse all night long. It was in those dreamy, blissful days that I delighted in the thought of a fast-approaching summer filled with popsicles, kiddie pools, and citrus-garnished Blue Moons. 

I was so naive. 

Our current season in life can be best described as, "Whatever. Good enough," so please excuse the errors and run-ons because as I'm typing this, my two-year-old is sweetly laying in my arms but touching every button and repeating, "Mommy, how could you make letters?" Where I was once looking forward to summer vacation as a chance to slow down, I'm now counting down the days until our homeschool year begins in the vain hope that the return of our normal, chaotic routine will somehow make us healthier. I don't know. But it has to be better than double rounds of pink eye. When my four-year-old first bestowed the lovely eye boogers upon us, she took her eye drops like an absolute champ. Then my six-year-old caught it and whoooooo boy, hell hath no fury like my daughter staring up a tube of antibiotics. Then there came the two-year-old, who tightly clasped both hands over her eyes (time to wash again) and bellowed, "I don't yike eye dwops!!" The joy repeated every two hours with each dosage. Then I caught it as a lovely sinus infection. Only the males in our house were blessedly spared. 

Once the goo resided, we'd surely sail smoothly into a sweet summertime with happy memories to be made, and so it seemed as we joyfully road-tripped to a reunion with my husband's large and loving extended family. There was bonding, swimming, and beer a plenty... and barf. First my four year-old's, then my husband's, and then, as we embarked upon our eight-turned-thirteen-hour drive home, the two-year-old's somewhere at a gas station in Kentucky. She'd barely eaten her lunch, but the sickeningly sweet smell of blueberries and Chick-Fil-A sauce erupted without end. If it weren't for their peppermint milkshake due to return this December, I doubt I'd ever be able to stomach the "Chikin" restaurant again. Once the downpour passed, she gleefully sat in the shotgun seat wearing nothing but a pull-up, while I stared down a puked-up car seat armed with a package of Costco wipes. All I could think of was Darryl Philbin scolding Michael Scott, "We're the ones that gotta clean that up."

With only half the wipes and minimal dry-heaving, we were back on our way home with only 7 hours, a screaming baby, and two more barfs to go. But hey, we made it, right? Surely now the rest of summer would be easy! 

Nope. We found evidence of mice in the pantry and family room and caught the perpetrator the next morning, but the fun was just beginning. John Paul decided sleeping on his own is overrated and Mom should be able to do without. The girls figured out new ways to make either bigger and more creative messes with their toys inside the house, or filthier messes of themselves in sand, dirt, and chalk outside. I like to think we keep watching television to a minimum, but my kids have watched so much Bluey that they now speak with slightly Australian accents (our niece has a slightly British one, thanks to Peppa Pig). There's a square-foot hole in our family room ceiling from a plumbing misfortune, and the only tree that shaded our backyard had to come down with a lovely price tag. PINK EYE CAME BACK WITH A VENGEANCE and I now shudder at the slightest sight of morning sand in any of my kids' eyes (I almost titled this piece "Of Mice and Mucus." Thankfully, I still have some teeny shred of knowing when it's TMI). Despite washing my hands raw after administering each miserable eye drop into the unwilling victims, I shared in the joy of a second lovely ENT illness with a second depressing trip to the CVS Minute Clinic (but at least this time it was viral, not bacterial, so that's something, right?). After some late-night gooling into natural ways to boost immune systems, I read that getting dirt-under-your-fingernails filthy is one of the best defenses, but holy biscuits my girls have spent half the summer like Linus! I should know - I'm the one who chose to bathe them every day at 1 pm (even when spaghetti was on the dinner menu) rather than have them track it all over the assumedly clean house! Just as I was about to lose my mind (and my voice), I was lucky enough to find MORE mice evidence on the exact floors I had just washed on my hands and knees. Uncle. At one point in the madness, we actually submitted an application for a golden retriever puppy because how could it get any crazier? Thank God for that $4,000 price, or I'd currently be (unsuccessfully) potty-training two small critters.

Oh, and the same poor toddler who puked her guts up in Kentucky also took a terrible spill
and knocked out one of her front teeth right before months-long-planned family pictures (complete with coordinating outfits). She's quite proud of the plush puppy purse she found under her pillow the next morning, but the tooth fairy still shudders at the memory of all the blood. Wouldn't you know that as she took that spill, I was scolding everyone about cleaning up yet another gargantuan mess? Momguilt has THE WORST timing. As I'm typing this, I hear that very same Bluey-loving girl sigh, "Oh, biscuits."

Indeed.

So yes, this summer has been one for the birds. We're all fine and happy and healthy(ish) and blah blah blah, but man. I've never been so ready to restart homeschooling so maybe MAYBE things will be easier. Yeah, right.

BUT, as always, Christ makes His way through the mess and the madness. Serendipitously, my snaggle-toothed two-year-old just crawled up next to me wearing only a pull-up and a smile. Family life is full of chaos and headaches and thankfully, ours are all passing. None of these constitute actual "problems," just another excuse for more chocolate. In the midst of vomit, mice, and conjunctivitis, I was blessed with the unique opportunity to see a dear friend for the first time in nine years! As it turned out, a former classmate who is now a Dominican priest would be touring with his fellow friars and their band and had planned to play in Chicago on the same weekend we had already planned a trip to see my family in the Windy City suburbs. With tickets in hand and my mom babysitting our dingo babies, my husband and I had our first date in months to see The Hillbilly Thomists and it was, quite literally, music to our souls. At a vintage theatre showcasing all things true, good, and beautiful, we enjoyed originally-written and beautifully crafted bluegrass music (way better than Lollapalooza, let me tell you). After praying Vespers in the beautiful St. Alphonsus downtown church, my husband and I enjoyed a truly refreshing visit with my-turned-our good friends. It was a good visit; the kind of laughter and conversation that you wish could go on for hours were it not for the bedtimes of parents with small children. 

There's a point to all this, I swear. However, I can't get to it. My two-year-old is scrunching down under my bed sheets and keeps asking me to count to ten as she "hides" under the covers. There's multi-tasking, and then there's trying to write coherent sentences while counting to ten and conversing (AKA repeating) with a two-year-old, who is now pointing at my laptop's power button and asking, "What does dis button do?" Yikes. 

Hah! The two-year-old has toddled out of the room with a mischievous smile, so I have anywhere from twenty seconds to ten minutes to make my point! Here's hoping my brain cells have a little fuel left. While sharing rich laughter and conversation after the concert, Fr. Joseph remarked on what a blessing it is to see young married couples who clearly love each other. I was confused, as I thought the blessing was in seeing talented, joyful friars giving their lives in humble obedience to Christ. As I watched them perform in their white habits with a galore of stringed instruments, the words of St. Irenaeus came to mind: "The glory of God is man fully alive." These men were the glory of God in their music, their community, their joy, and their humor. It gave us respite from the demands of family life and rejuvenation for its return, mice and all. 

Life with four children aged six and under is chaotic and messy and hard. But I once read that in motherhood you may lose your mind (as I believe I have), but oh, how you find your soul. In the kissies, the sleeping-angel-faces, the baby giggles, and the sweet sibling play. In watching kids play outside until they're good and dirty, in the weight of a sleeping infant on my chest, and in celebrating my grandmother's beautiful life. In the sacrifices of sleep, uninterrupted writing, real clothes, and proper grammar. I'd usually ask my husband to fix my many errors due to sleep deprivation, but as I said before: Whatever. Good Enough. In these early days of parenting, unlike any other time in our lives, we will never have more opportunities to serve Jesus than in the constant needs of our children. Who ever thought He'd ask for so many snacks? 

It was pretty dumb to expect an easy, peaceful summer with little kids. Ten bucks says my husband knew all along but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Jesus doesn't give us easy (at least, not according to our plans). He gives us opportunities to serve and sacrifice; He invites us to take up our cross and follow. He reminds us, along the way, that there is beauty and joy in the giving of ourselves to one another. As I write this, I can't help thinking of how my mom (and other family members) are taking up the very hard cross of caring for my aging grandfather, and how many other loved ones are carrying their heavy, heavy crosses. However, as the Hillbilly Thomists witness through their music, there is beauty and purpose in sacrifice, even if in the moment it just feels like mousetraps and eye drops. 

Short-Wilson Family Reunion Pre-Barfnado

He's not There

According to Kenny Chesney, it should be the sunny days that hurt the most, the ones whose pain drags like a heavy coat. I disagree. It's the cold days, the rainy, bitter, and cloudy days that make me want to drive to Our Lady of Peace Cemetery and lay prostrate over my unborn son's grave, as if to shield his tiny body from the elements and provide some semblance of warmth. Because the cemetery closes before my three daughters' bedtime, however, I lay comfortably in my own bed underneath blankets and quilts, and remind myself over and over again, he's not there. He's not in the cold, hard ground. He's safe, warm, and embraced in Heaven. He's not there. 

That may be what I tell myself, but it certainly isn't what I feel as I clutch his tiny hospital blanket and listen to the howling wind. During the summertime, the wind chimes we were gifted helped me to imagine him giggling beside his sisters as they played in the backyard. Now, their chime reminds me that I am inside my warm and cozy home while my baby rests outside in the bitter cold.

He's not there. 

As Nativity scenes have grown commonplace over the last few weeks, the image of the Blessed Mother holding her newborn son evokes a newfound pang of guilt within my heart. What had once been an image of comfort and joy now reminds me of the son I've lost. This Christmas, Joshua would have been around three months old. He'd have likely been smiling, lifting his head, and rolling. He'd have been in our arms and surrounded by his older, doting sisters. Instead, he was delivered on Good Friday this past spring after a late miscarriage and, rather than being postpartum, I am currently 33 weeks pregnant with his younger brother. 

Despite the glittery Christmas displays and cheerful holiday songs multiplying over the airwaves, I just want to curl up and hold my baby boy again. He won't be celebrating his first Christmas with us. He won't have his own monogrammed stocking, a festive onesie, or an epic spit-up during Christmas Eve Mass. Feeling my second son's kicks and rolls and anticipating his healthy birth this February does not take away from the fact that I miss my Joshua. I miss knowing his face and his personality. I miss being able to watch him grow up and see him play with his sisters. Shortly after his passing, a well-intentioned friend reminded me, "Well, surely you knew him," but I didn't. I don't know what he would have looked like or how his personality would have blossomed. I don't know his gifts, talents, or struggles. I feel as though I'm neglecting him; I should be changing his diaper, watching him grow, and bonding with him, rather than driving past his cemetery from the warmth of my own car. Such a thought never would have made any sense prior to his miscarriage - how could I possibly neglect a baby I wasn't allowed to keep?

My work as Joshua's mother is done. Because he's a saint in Heaven, he doesn't even need me to pray for him. When Chiara Corbella Petrillo, Servant of God, passed away in 2012 after a valiant battle with cancer, her widowed husband reflected, "When my wife died, many people told me, 'Don't worry, Enrico, you will feel her close, you won't miss her.' I have never felt her close, and I have always missed her." I don't feel Joshua with me. I've never felt his presence. I barely even know how to talk to him within my heart. In the quiet, still moments of the day after everyone else has gone to sleep or before they've awakened, I imagine the fuzzy newborn head that should be in my arms or the tiny breaths that should be coming from the co-sleeper bassinet. Sometimes, I even imagine the weight of a sleeping baby upon my chest, but he's not there. 

I have three beautiful, healthy girls and another healthy son on the way. My first son is in Heaven. My husband and I share a loving marriage and we are beyond blessed with more than we could ever need. I have no reason to feel heavy, and yet I do. I miss my baby boy, and every time I see Mary holding hers, I simply ache. As my to-do list begins to dwindle during these last few days of Advent, an uncomfortable silence is setting in. I am running out of distractions from the fact that Joshua will not be with us on Christmas morning, or any morning. The silence is coupled with a sense of dread, because it was on Christmas Eve of last year that we first learned of Joshua’s presence. Now, all of the Yuletide cards, gifts, cookies, and crafts cannot fill his void. However, it is precisely because of Mary's baby boy that mine lives eternally and that I will one day hold him and kiss him again. Because of this baby born in Bethlehem, I will know my son more intimately than I ever could have on Earth. I will hold him, kiss him, and feel his baby hair against my cheek without ever having to say goodbye again.

My child never suffered. He went straight from the warmth and comfort of my womb to the everlasting warmth and comfort of Heaven. After my miscarriage, a friend shared with me that the very first thing Joshua ever saw when he opened his eyes was the face of Christ. How beautiful. The Christ Child suffered so that my son wouldn't. Jesus was born in the piercing cold, in a lonely stable far from home, and shortly sent into impoverished exile in the land of Egypt, to say nothing of the Passion and Death He would endure. With that in mind, Christmas has a new, richer beauty this year. When I see the Christ Child, I see my son. My baby boy is with Jesus. I will always miss him and wonder what it would have been like to have him with us on Earth, but because of what started with Christ's incarnation, I will be with him again. These lights, gifts, sounds, scents, and joys of the season are just a glimmer of the true joy of Heaven that awaits us. What's more, I am reminded that, just as Christ gave His life for my son, so also did Joshua give up his life for his younger brother. My little baby is a saint, and even though there are still occasional tears and I will always, always miss him, the words of the priest who celebrated his funeral ring true: there is an undercurrent of peace and joy knowing our son is with the Lord. 

Throughout this Advent, many of our friends and family members have endured deep and tragic crosses. Even without the Covid pandemic and all of its ensuing chaos, there is much suffering in many hearts, perhaps in your own. If so, then I am truly sorry and want to simply remind you that the same Baby Jesus who signifies my son's eternal life also brings glad tidings of eternal peace and joy to you, too. Maybe not this Christmas, and maybe not even this side of Eternity. Some things will just always ache. However, our Emmanuel, "God with us," is there with you in your cross and came into the world to give you His peace.

Just the other day, I realized that, perhaps, we should have arranged a Christmas wreath at Joshua's grave, as my family has frequently done for my beloved grandmother. As I considered it, however, the idea felt hollow. Something about a wreath at his grave just felt empty and unnecessary. I wrestled with these feelings, wondering why I should ever hesitate to honor my son's resting place. Then, it hit me: he's not there. We don't need to place a wreath beside him because he rests in Heaven, not in the ground. Hopefully one day, we will, too. Joy to the world, indeed. 

This Advent was Supposed to be Great

As it turns out, when you buy a home, support your husband in his MBA, and birth three children all within five years of marriage, certain hobbies, such as blogging, take a backseat. Oops.

This hasn't been an almost five-year case of writer's block. I've had lots of ideas, but not enough functioning brain cells to string together a decent sentence (sleep is a precious commodity these days). Plus, some little person always wants another snack. However, recent family events have caused enough reflection that even this introvert needs to share. 


This Advent was supposed to be great. Our eldest daughter just turned four, meaning she's old enough to start to understand the story of the Nativity and the spirit of Christmas. I had so many Pinterest-inspired ideas for a holy Advent (the former Youth Minister in me was coming back to the surface): we were going to roll our own beeswax Advent candles for the wreath (which we did)! Make lots of donations to local pregnancy resource centers and Giving Tree programs! Try the Giving Manger! Order some fancy Jesse Tree craft! So many ideas... that would consequently cost so many dollars. 

Midway through the first week of Advent, Ryan came home in the middle of the day, looking sickly pale, and informed me that he'd just been laid-off... and we were now a zero-income household. 

Needless to say, all nonessential spending came to a screeching halt and any recent orders were cancelled. The Christmas cards I'd been stressing over the night before? No longer needed. Extra Christmas decorations? The Giving Manger? A wreath for our empty front door? Nope. We've always tried to live frugally, but our already-small budget practically disappeared. 

Ryan losing his job is a cross. He bears the heavy pressure of protecting us. It's his responsibility to tirelessly look for a new position so that our family can be well-provided for, while still being an attentive father to three very young daughters. I bear the weight of caring for our family on a teeny budget. There's a pit in our stomachs over the unknown. We don't know if we'll be living this way merely for weeks or for months. We don't know how much our savings will dwindle. We do know, however, that God gives grace for the moment, and so we're taking this one day at a time and entrusting it all to His loving care.

This Advent was supposed to be great. Despite outward appearances, it has been. 

Ironically, losing our income has made us feel immediately and deeply grateful. Our marriage is solid. Our children are healthy and happy (until we give them brussel sprouts). We have a lovely home in a wonderful neighborhood. We are free. We have a Savior who loves us and will never abandon us. If our heaviest cross concerns only money, then thank God. It doesn't make sense, but through Ryan's first unemployed evening, we felt inexplicably thankful for our faith, each other, and our children.

Where we stopped spending money, we found time. Instead of staying up late trying to finagle overpriced online Christmas cards (and potentially taking a hammer to my ancient laptop), I'm cuddling my baby and soaking up her little squeals, clicks, and stretches. Instead of trying to explain complicated crafts to my preschooler and toddler, we're pretending to be Disney princesses (over and over and over again). Instead of contemplating just one more decoration or scouring resale shops for another's treasures, I've simply crossed all that unnecessary spending off of my list and refocused on the lovely things we already have. Also, did I mention that I don't have to set foot in another hot, crowded, and noisy mall? Pity.

Most Advents, we'd be patting ourselves on the back after making a financial donation to a local charity (apparently missing the memo about the right hand not knowing what the left hand does). This year, we're learning how to humbly accept charity: an anonymous family graciously sponsored the next two months of our daughter's preschool tuition, neighborhood friends gifted us a Christmas tree, and many others have made generous offers. We realize how profoundly blessed we are by our community, family, and friends. 

There've been trying moments. Our normal family routine has gone out the window, which doesn't bode well with toddlers. I'm not exactly known to embrace change. It's really embarrassing to realize how spoiled we are, as our version of "doing without" means we still have plenty of food, heat, and healthcare... and yet I still lament not buying all the seasonal grocery treats. This whole experience has been a bittersweet mirror to my soul: I see both how many wonderful blessings I've been given, and also how regularly I overlook them and want for more. 

Tonight, however, the mirror got a little clearer when our family went to a local Christkindlmarkt and Live Nativity. As we strolled through the fair, admiring the local art and smelling the amazing aroma of warm, spiced nuts, I couldn't help feeling sorry for our family. Why did we come here just to look at stuff we can't buy? Moments later, I recognized a young mother whose husband died years ago, just weeks before the birth of their child. As I watched my own husband joyfully hold our daughters' hands and point out the Biblical characters in the creche, I could only imagine the heartache she's suffered. As I write this now, I think of our friends and family members who've endured unbelievable anguish in recent years. There are no words to describe how incredibly stupid I feel for ever grieving the temporary loss of things. I've been given so, so much and am extravagantly rich in the love of my husband, my children, and my Lord.

Despite my original plans and anxiety over the unknown, this has been our best Advent. I wanted to spend these four weeks teaching my daughters about Jesus and His holy birth, but instead, He's teaching us. We're learning that all the decorations, shopping, treats, and even well-intentioned catechetical ideas are just fluff (I wish I could say I already knew that, but apparently not). We're remembering that a loving marriage and precious children are our truest blessings. 

Even more importantly, we're being challenged to trust that, in good times and in bad, Christ is with us and His love will sustain us. He lovingly directs all things for our good (Romans 8:28) and promises the hope of Eternal Life with Him and all of our loved ones. We have a Lord who carries our crosses with us, and a Blessed Mother who gently guides and protects us as only a mama can. This past week, our Lady of Guadalupe was dear to our hearts as we recalled her words, "Do not be troubled or weighed down with grief. Do not fear any illness or vexation, anxiety or pain. Am I not here who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not your fountain of life? Are you not in the folds of my mantle? In the crossing of my arms? Is there anything else you need?"

So here's wishing you and your loved ones a very happy, holy, and simple Advent. May you feel the loving presence of our Lord in all of your blessings and crosses. 

So... What Do You, Like, Do All Day?

While still only a few months into my current youth ministry job, I was at a Christmas party when a well-intentioned guy offered some not-so-well-thought-out comments regarding my choice in profession: "So, is that, like, a real job, or did you just sign up for it?" He then followed-up with, "I always wondered what my youth minister did all day... probably played dodge ball, I guess."

Yep. I simply walked over to the youth ministry table after Mass one day, signed up for a full-time job, and now play dodge ball all day while the kids are in school. That sounds legit (except, according to my freshmen, the correct term these days is "legiteral").

Lots of good-hearted parishioners, youth ministry parents, and friends unknowingly join in the chorus of well-intentioned put-downs:

"So, do you get the summers off?"

"It must be nice to have such a relaxing job."

"This is nice, but what's your real job?"

"That's so nice that the church pays you to do this!"

Um, sure. It's nice of your employer to pay you, too.

What can I do, other than smile and nod? They mean well and have no idea they've equated the long hours and hair-pulling days to a simple cake-walk to the tune of "Amazing Grace." For all they know, maybe I do just sit in my cubicle all day and strum "Kumbaya" on my guitar, just waiting for some kid to come walking through the doors and start sharing all of life's bigger problems (like, the time her best friend said her new haircut looked funny so now she doesn't know who to trust ever again and her little brother is being so annoying and mom won't let her drive so life's just totally unfair).

"You know who else hit a rough patch? Jesus; He was dead."
Thanks a lot, Reverend Tim Tom.

Therein lies the temptation to take ourselves too seriously and forget that part of working in youth ministry is essentially being a kid again (like the time I spent an entire afternoon filling up two hundred water balloons; I'm pretty sure no one on Wall Street has that responsibility). What other job allows you to stay up all night binging on candy, wear a sloppy t-shirt and get paint in your hair, and keep a bottomless stash of Gummi Worms?

Of course, that's not how the day-to-day office hours are spent. Those aren't quite revisited childhood: planning for youth group meetings and Confirmation class; organizing retreats, mission trips, and lock-ins; balancing canon law; calming frustrated parents; and many other mundane tasks. But, without these long, tiresome, and sometimes even miserable office hours, the water balloons, paint, and Gummi Bear moments wouldn't happen.

But, youth ministry can't stop at water balloons, house paint, and Gummi Bears. That'd be pretty fruitless. If it doesn't point the teens to Christ Himself, then it's all for nothing and I'd might as well just sit around playing dodge ball all day, every day. The childish antics are meant to hopefully inspire a child-like faith and a heroic virtue that turns today's young teenagers into our newest and brightest young saints spreading the Good News with the gift of their lives. 

"Jesus, help me to simplify my life by learning what you want me to be,
and then becoming that person."
-St. Therese of Lisieux

Wedding Novena to Saint Joseph

In less than two weeks, Ryan and I will be married. Holy cow.

This is more than just walking down the aisle, cutting the cake, and enjoying all of the wedding traditions; we are vowing to love and honor one another as husband and wife no matter what. The rest of our lives hinge on these simple words of profound meaning, and despite our best attempts to take in marriage advice from friends and theologians, nothing can truly prepare and sustain us like God's grace.

There is much left to do as we prepare for "the big day," but thankfully, we aren't nervous or even too stressed out (thanks in part to leftover Christmas cookies and wine!). Instead, we've been amazed by the generosity others have shown unto us. Our friends and family members have given us an overabundance of beautiful gifts to help us start our married life. My coworkers have been patient with my not-so-subtle attempts to sneak in wedding planning alongside youth ministry. Our friends have understood our busy schedules and have added much joy to these happy celebrations. Our families have increased our excitement as we count down the days. Truly, we are blessed beyond anything we could imagine.

Many people have offered to help us in regards to last-minute wedding plans, and we truly appreciate it (check back in a week, and I'll have a list long enough to make you regret offering)! The best way you can help us is to please pray for us: for our preparation to receive the Sacrament of Matrimony, for our guests' safe travels, and, yes, for the serenity to accept whatever goes awry on the big day itself.

As Catholics, we are quite fond of Novena Prayers. A novena is a series of prayers of petition and/or thanksgiving offered unto God for nine consecutive days. It's a tradition that dates back all the way to the Apostles, who, with Mary, spent nine days in prayer between Christ's Ascension into Heaven and the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. Like asking friends on earth to pray for us, we also ask saints and loved ones in Heaven to pray for us, too.

Before Ryan and I met, I prayed a novena to St. Joseph and asked him to lead me toward a good, holy, and just man not unlike himself. Well, his prayers worked! Shortly after I finished the prayer, Ryan and I had our first date and the rest fell into place. As our model of humility, charity, trusting faith, and selfless devotion, we are turning to St. Joseph's intercession again as we start our married life (plus, we already know he's rooting for us)! 

Starting on Thursday, January 1st (on which day Catholics celebrate the Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God), we will begin our nine-day novena to St. Joseph, concluding on Friday, January 9th. If you would like to join us in this novena prayer, we would appreciate it much more than we could ever express. However, any and all prayers you might offer on our behalf are equally precious to us.

If you are interested in joining in our novena to St. Joseph, please offer this prayer every day from January 1st through January 9th. If you miss a day or jumble the words, don't worry; your guardian angel will take care of it ;-)

Oh, St. Joseph, whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the Throne of God, we place in you all our interests and desires.

Oh, St. Joseph, do assist us by your powerful intercession and obtain for us from your Divine Son all spiritual blessings through Jesus Christ, our Lord; so that, having engaged here below your heavenly power, we may offer our Thanksgiving and Homage to the most loving of Fathers.

Oh, St. Joseph, we never weary contemplating you and Jesus asleep in your arms. We dare not approach while He reposes near your heart. Press Him in our name and kiss His fine head for us, and ask Him to return the kiss when we draw our dying breath.

St. Joseph, patron of departing souls, pray for us.

Amen.

Again, thank you all so much for all of your prayers, kind words, and warm wishes. They mean so much to us and our families. Please, know that we are praying for you, too.  



At St. Clement Church, where we met.

Forgiving the Impossible

In my junior year of college, a few friends from my high school youth group and I travelled to Jacksonville, Florida to help start a Kairos retreat program for juniors and seniors. Looking back now, this experience was one of the first signs that my heart was called to serve the Church in youth ministry. At the time, however, I was grateful simply to give unto these teenagers what had been given unto me years ago. When, as a high school student, I participated in my own Kairos retreats, it revolutionized my Catholic faith and deepened my prayer life beyond anything I ever could have imagined. Had I not attended this retreat, I'm not sure where my personal faith would be today, and I almost certainly wouldn't have continued down the road that led to youth ministry. Kairos opened my eyes to recognizing God's presence in all things, and I couldn't wait to share this gift with our Florida teenagers.

The four-day retreat was filled with sharing many personal testimonies, receiving affirmation letters from home, and finding peace through small group and one-on-one discussions. By day three, the teenagers were deeply immersed in the retreat and started opening up about the various crosses they each were carrying. We could see the work of God in each of their hearts as even the most obstinate young men and women were starting to see Christ's presence. For some of them, the victory was found in learning to accept that, perhaps, He does exist after all.

On the evening of the third day, the teenagers were invited to participate in one-on-one discussions with us leaders. We were each scattered throughout a large room, seated with small candles and waiting for the retreatants to approach us. After waiting for a few moments, a sweet girl from my own small group and her friend came and sat down before me. After a few friendly exchanges, she grew serious and shared with me that there was something she was deeply struggling with. When I asked what was going on, she responded with words that left me speechless:

"A few guys from high school raped me, and I'm having a hard time forgiving them."

What on earth do you say to that? How do you possibly address the horrors of what she had to endure, while also answering her seemingly impossible question? How do you help a sixteen year-old girl forgive multiple guys who raped her?

There are no words to give in response. There is no easy solution, because no one should ever have to grapple with such pain. And yet, here she was with a genuine desire to forgive these despicable guys for their unforgiveable act.

She had to face them every day at school. She never received an apology. No justice was ever served. And yet, she wanted to forgive them.

“To love means loving the unlovable.

To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable.

Faith means believing the unbelievable.

Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.”

-G. K. Chesterton

At sixteen years old, this young woman had more faith and courage than anyone I'd ever met. Even the Theology Professors at Notre Dame couldn't hold a candle to her.

Trusting in the guidance of the Holy Spirit, I spoke with her about the mere fact that she had the will to forgive was already incomprehensibly saint-like. We spoke at length about God's peace and healing, about the grace in having true friends like the one at her side, and about the strength and courage her heart already held. Being that this experience happened almost ten years ago, I can't recall exactly what was said, but I do remember being absolutely amazed by the peace and courage she possessed. Not even an unapologetic, careless group of men guilty of one of the worst crimes against humanity could take away her faith, hope, and love. She was not allowing herself to be held captive to their crime.

Many would say that this young woman is wrong in choosing to forgive; that she should stay angry for the sake of her own mental health. I'm sure many would fault my words spoken in that conversation and written here in this blog. How can you forgive something so horrifying? How can you forgive someone who isn't even the least bit sorry? Isn't this just adding more guilt, shame, and burden upon the victim? Is it denying them the outburst and vengeance they deserve, and may even need for their own healing? How can we possibly encourage a rape victim to forgive her perpetrators?

The answer is simple. We forgive because we are forgiven, and because forgiveness is the only way that leads to peace. The Amish community in Nickel Mines, PA figured this out in 2006 when Charles Roberts entered the elementary school and shot ten young girls, killing five and then himself. How could the parents and community members forgive such evil? How could they console his horrified widow, attend his funeral, and even refuse to speak angrily about him?

Forgiving doesn't mean conceding that what happened is okay (if it were, there would be nothing to forgive). It doesn't mean forgetting, either (Jesus never said anything of the sort in Scripture, nor did He simply 'forget' about the whole crucifixion thing). It simply means giving up your right to be angry. Someone has done something wrong, terrible, even evil unto you, but you choose not to let the anger rule and destroy your heart. We pursue justice, we hold the guilty party accountable for their actions, but we do not hold ourselves hostage to anger, hatred, and darkness. To do so would only give the sin a deeper, longer-lasting grip over us. Who then, would truly lose in the end? Those who forgive are they who care more for peace, joy, and accepting the beauty of life, rather than losing it in an ugly sea of dark thoughts, bitter emotions, and vengeful daydreams.

But, lest we think that forgiveness is all about making Number One happy, we need to look no further than the cross to know where the heart of mercy rests. Jesus makes the justice of forgiveness pretty clear in The Parable of the Unforgiving Servant in Matthew 18:21-35:

"I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to.
Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?"

If Jesus could forgive us after we betrayed, mocked, beat, stripped, and murdered Him; if He could forgive us even in the midst of these atrocities, crying out, "Father, forgive them, for they know now what they do" (Luke 23:34), then what possible exemption could we declare for ourselves?

May we all learn from the holy strength of this young woman and learn to forgive others, even when it seems impossible and the world would justify us for staying trapped in our anger. Indeed, the Resurrection of Christ and the faith of this sweet girl prove that, "Nothing is impossible with God" (Luke 1:37).

"Bless the Lord, Oh, my Soul."

"My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,

my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.

From this day all generations will call me blessed:

the Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name"

(Luke 1:46).

Our Lady of the Streets

Mary's soul proclaimed the greatness of the Lord. From the depths, from the very core of her being, a voice resounded to praise God and rejoice in His Holy Name. This was neither a momentary spiritual high, nor passing excitement over the Good News of the Annunciation; this was the fundamental recognition that eternal salvation had, by means of God's grace, entered into the world through her own body.

My kids didn't realize it, but on this past summer's mission trip to Williamson, West Virginia, they incarnated Mary's Magnificat. It wasn't just by their words and actions that they brought the love of Christ into to the world; something had clearly stirred deep within their souls, leaving an unmistakable sign of the presence of the Lord.

The mission trip was not unlike any other church trip: teens from a rather affluent area travelled ten hours by van to spend a week serving an Appalachian community. Our teens welcomed the opportunity to step outside of the North Shore "bubble" and into a coal-mining town hidden in the mountains where the McCoys and Hatfields once feuded, and were eager to meet the other teens who would be joining us from a Lutheran Church in Minnesota.

As soon as the trip began, the teens began bonding with one another over Fazoli's pit stops, goofy car games, and group chats. When the work projects started, they dove right in without complaint or hesitation. These young people were eager to give unto others, and were thirsting for something to shake them from their daily lives.

Well, that "something" came during the closing worship service of the very first night. The site leaders picked up their guitars and projected song lyrics onto a screen, while teens from the Lutheran group put their arms around each other and swayed back and forth, singing every word to every song. 

Our group, on the other hand, stood in place with their arms crossed and nervous glances that begged, "Do we really have to do this?" As hard as they tried to guess the lyrics, anyone could see that they were incredibly uncomfortable. Then again, with lyrics such as, "Heaven meets Earth in a sloppy, wet kiss," who could blame them?

As the end of the week approached, one of the site leaders shared with me that our last night's worship service would involve a foot washing ceremony, in which the youth ministers and leaders would wash their teens' feet.

Oh, boy.

As he explained how it would be such a moving service, during which almost everyone would cry, all I could think of was how miserably awkward our teens would feel. Our parish can hardly get enough adults to participate in our Holy Thursday Mass' foot washing ceremony! If these kids could just barely get past kumbaya-swaying to cheesy praise and worship songs, how in the heck would they let me (or anyone else) wash their feet? Yikes.

As always, the kids proved me wrong. As soon as the lights dimmed and my fellow chaperones and I began washing our teens' feet, tears started flowing. Not superficial, forced tears; real, flowing, almost-bawling tears from just about every teen in our group. Later that night, the tears continued to flow as the teens shared how the trip changed them. Kids whose parents were under financial strain realized just how blessed they truly were. Some found friendships they never expected to make. Others who weren't too sold on the whole "Jesus thing" had found their faith. The friendship, compassion, and love pouring out in our small group was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed.

The kids didn't just have fun, or "check off" their service requirement for the following year. They may have come on the trip for various reasons (one fessed up that his dad forced him on the trip for service credit), but what they found was a metanoia, or profound change of heart. Like Mary, what they experienced reverberated deep into their souls. Indeed, Christ had truly come into them, and flowed out through their hands and into the world.

As amazed as I might have been by my teens, I was still well-aware of the fact that they aren't perfect. They totally vandalized the other church's vans with car markers and had unsuccessfully planned to sneak out well past "lights out" on the final night of the trip. Little buggers. Even more, once the pressure of academics and athletics sets in with the new school year, it will only get harder for them to remember the immense blessings they received on this trip. As much as I'd like to imagine that every one of these kids will stay close to Jesus for the rest of their lives, I realize that it's highly unlikely they'll all trod in the footprints of Blessed Teresa of Calcutta (I'm not that naïve).

Regardless of how zealously they continue to practice the faith and good works that they each learned on the mission trip , one thing remains: for one week of their teenaged lives, Christ came into their hearts with an unmistakable, abundance of grace.

"For I have set you an example,

that you also should do as I have done to you" (John 13:15).