One of my Lenten disciplines this year was to read only religious-themed books. I didn’t consider this a sacrifice as I have an entire bookcase of said books, most of which have yet to be read.
I had two lengthy books that I was set to tackle – Kristin Lavansdatter by Sigrid Unset and The Robe by Lloyd Douglas. The former comes highly recommended as a must-read Catholic work of fiction, and the latter is a favorite of my former priest. Two books in five weeks – this will not even be hard (insert Elle from Legally Blonde).
I’ve been trying to read The Robe for over a year – it was written in the 60s, over 500 pages, and detailed to the nth degree. The story is compelling – a Roman tribune who was part of the execution of Jesus “wins” his robe, and this event changes the trajectory of his life. I finished it – the last 50 or so pages after Easter Vigil Mass. I would give five stars to the last 200 pages, but 200 pages could be cut from this book, and it would be just as good. Recommended reading – just know you’re in it for the long haul.
Kristin Lavansdatter has been recommended to me multiple times. Sigrid Unset won the Nobel Prize for Literature. This giant tome is a big deal; I had high expectations. And I had to abandon it about halfway through. It’s over 1,000 pages, Scandanavian, and it is arduously detailed- all of which I could get past. But in the end, what sunk this book for me was that I didn’t care about the main character. I tried to care about Kristin – I really did. And maybe the end is worth it, and she’s the heroine we all need – but I wasn’t willing to gamble hours of my life on that bet. And be bored to tears for 500 more pages. Hats off to you if this is your favorite book. Maybe I’ll pick it back up in five or ten years and try again. But probably not.
Life is short. My list of to-be-read books numbers over 1,000 – I choose not to force myself, teeth gnashing, through a book I’m not enjoying just because I’m “supposed” to like it. (Same with Wuthering Heights – HATE!, same with anything by Melville, same with 1963 by Stephen King, same with The Red Tent…)
Read what you enjoy, what feeds your soul, what brings a smile to your face, what makes you laugh or cry or sometimes throw the book across the room. Just keep reading.
I’m a big fan of e-readers. I bought a Nook when it first came out, and I loved it. So light I could carry it in a bag – so many books at a time. I eventually switched to a Kindle e-reader, and I’ve read hundreds of books using it.
My budget does not accommodate my voracious reading habit, so I check 99% of my books from the library and download them to my Kindle. But sometimes I want to read a book that is either very old, has yet to be digitized, or is simply unavailable at my public library.
In This House of Brede
I work at a university where I can check out books from practically any library worldwide. It’s an excellent resource that I underuse. I am only reading religious-themed books this Lent, and In This House of Brede has been on my to-read list for years. My public library did not have the digital edition, so I checked out the hard copy from the university library.
I’d forgotten how much I love to hold a library book in my hands. I’ve written before about how I would go to our public library multiple times a week as a child. Walking the few blocks home with a stack of books in my arms. I love libraries but do not frequent them enough as an adult.
I hold this 1969 edition of In This House of Brede in my hands and wonder about all the hands who’ve held it before. Did the person walk and read as I sometimes do? Did they sit by a fireplace and read with a blanket on their lap and a dog at their feet? Did they read on the bus late at night, waiting for the streetlights to illuminate the words?
Thank you, God, for libraries, old tattered books, and words on the page. For the stories we tell. For the weight of a book in our hands.
I’ve lived in the Midwest for almost (cough) 40 (cough) years. This summer I attempted my first vegetable garden. I’m a late bloomer (🤷🏻♀️).
My garden’s hit or miss. I planted too many things too close together. My butternut squash and my Hatch green chile never had a chance against the alpha yellow squash.
Squash harvest
But tonight, I picked these beauties and then I cut them up and sautéed them for dinner. I know that people have been growing their own food since before Noah built the ark. And I know that I’m growing “extra” food: I don’t need this food to subsist. I have 5 grocery stores within 5 minutes of my house. But it’s such a satisfying feeling. Grow it, pick it, eat it. 100% organic. This is not a revelation to the world. But it’s a revelation to me.
Here’s to dirt and sun and water. To planting and watching and waiting. To humble harvests. To trying something new. To finding delight in a bee buzzing around a squash blossom. To the perfection of a tiny green tomato. Amen.
I’m in a love/hate relationship with my Facebook memories. Sometimes they are sweet reminders of moments with my family or my friends. Sometimes they make me cringe that our posts used to be “Waiting in line at the BMV” with a frowny face emoji. Those were the days – we were social media innocents. But lately, my memories have been making me cringe for another reason.
Let’s unpack my psyche circa 2017. Our youngest son, Sam, was getting ready to graduate and I was, in layman’s terms, losing my mind. I was caught in the in-between space when you are so excited and happy for them to start on a new chapter in life while simultaneously mourning the relationship that was. He was moving away to a great school – four hours away, which seemed manageable but also so far from home.
First day of college, 2017
I started making lists around February. The seemingly endless lists of things to buy, appointments to make, and forms to fill out. When I get overwhelmed with a situation, I go into “get s*it done” mode, and I was out to win the gold medal of “Most Prepared College Mom.” Totes were bought, Amazon boxes stacked up, housing agreements signed, FAFSAs submitted, and dentist appointments scheduled. My insomnia kicked into overdrive, and I’d lie awake at night thinking of more things that needed to be done: how our grocery bill would shrink and how sad our pets would be when Sam’s room would stay empty.
I was spiraling. My husband was supportive. I tried not to be an emotional mess around my son because I didn’t want him to feel bad. It was rough. I had a countdown app on my phone that ticked away the months, days, and hours until we had to move him in. And sure enough, that day came. It went as expected – lots to do that kept us busy. And then, it was time to say goodbye.
The president of the university said a prayer over the parents at the new-student assembly. It was beautiful and poignant, and it wrecked me. I hugged him goodbye, and then I cried most of the way home. Then the next day and for a few days more.
I know that my dread of my son moving away to college was not exclusive to me. A lot of moms had similar experiences. Happy AND sad AND proud AND in mourning for what was. I would catch myself and think, “for goodness sake, it’s not like I’m sending him off to war! – GET A GRIP!” And I’d have that grip for an hour, sometimes a day, and then I’d slip back into sadness and grief.
It wasn’t until the past few months, when I saw some FB memory posts, that I started thinking about that time and why I was so off the rails. And then it dawned on me. I was mourning so much more, but it was all laser-focused on Sam.
The summer before Sam’s senior year, our oldest son moved across the world to start a career. I was all for this – it was exciting, a great opportunity, and an adventure! But I was missing him and his presence so much. And then, the most significant blow of all, my mom passed away in December. Her health had been in a slow decline for years, and her heart eventually gave out. She passed so peacefully. No preparation can prepare you for the loss of a parent. My dad had died years before, so now I was an orphan. I felt untethered to this world, drifting on a sea of grief.
I had worried about her for so long, had been in charge of her care, and I wasn’t sure what to do with myself when that time was no longer an obligation. So I started making lists. I was preparing for the next loss the best way I knew how. I transferred all that emotion onto this situation of my son leaving for college. Let the emotional spiral begin.
It seems so obvious now – loss was piled onto loss in our lives and, although it was a happy thing, our son going off to a great school – it felt like one blow too many. My wounded heart couldn’t take one more hit. I am an Enneagram 9; that means I don’t like situations – or feelings – that are too uncomfortable, so I push them down and away. This does not make those feelings or concerns go away; it morphs them into other things like obsessing over how much sunscreen and allergy medication I should buy (NOT that much!) and whether his mattress cover will be soft enough. Yikes. My husband worked off so much purgatory talking me down off ledges those many months.
And because I am Catholic, please throw some guilt onto the pile of emotion I was carrying around. Guilt that I wasn’t trusting in God, guilt for my anxiety, guilt for not just being happy for my well-adjusted son who was doing something great.
I can’t go back and change my reaction. I can’t undo the anxiety, sadness, and grief from my mom’s death that manifested into a crazed, list-making, buy-everything-at-Target mom. But I’m here to tell you that I lived through it. That God had a hand in it all. That my son ended up transferring to a school five minutes from our house. That I took the grief and sadness and flipped it into something positive by enrolling in grad school. That I learned to be so grateful for having people in my life who I loved so deeply, who I could miss so much. That I developed a deep devotion to Mary, our holy mother, who understands grief and loss more than any human who has ever lived.
So if you are in the middle of the list-making, box-packing, frantic Target shopping, I want to assure you that your child will be ok, that you will be ok. That God has got you both in the palm of His hand, and He will never let you go.
A blank page. Lately there have been quite a few pages left blank. A best practice for anyone who writes is to put pen to paper every day. An idea, a paragraph, fill up a whole page if the words are there. I’ve taken to having small notebooks and pens at the ready for just these bursts of inspiration; next to my bed, in my bags (computer bag, church bag, everyday bag) everyone has more than one, right? When I glimpse them will fumbling for my lip gloss or my keys I feel like they’re silently mocking me. Here I am, they say; where are all those ideas you promised us? (Yes. I have guilt about not writing so I make up conversations with notebooks and pens – welcome to my brain.)
Collective We – the Church – are in Lent. It is a time for fasting and prayer; we go metaphorically into the desert with Christ; preparing our hearts for the passion and crucifixion of Our Lord and Savior. It’s a time of reflection, penance, sacrifice.
This year, as seems to always be the case, I start strong. I have great intentions (it’s a such a nice, comfortable path). For a myriad of reasons, my plan fizzled about day 20. Halfway! Possibly a new record. Maybe that should be my goal next year – 40 days is so long after all. Maybe I could have a 10-day plan; then the next 10. Kidding of course (not totally kidding….).
I’ve felt a bit off, physically for a few reasons, but mostly spiritually. I know that Satan loves Lent because he can get in there and strike when we’re feeling the closest to Christ. It’s through our own insecurities and doubts that he has the most power. I felt ready to combat the battle I knew was coming, but now I see I was relying on my own willpower to do this. Sigh. Over and over I have to be taught the same lessons.
Please don’t read these next words and think that I’m describing myself as God’s messenger – reread that a few times.
The things that I write; the words that just flow, I do believe are Holy Spirit driven. Most times when I sit down to write it’s with the barest glimpse of a thought. A tiny whisper of a string of words, a faint idea. And then the words just come. Through my brain down my arms into my fingers and out. To you. To the ether. Where they land I have no control. Often a remark out of the blue days, weeks, months later give some clarity that someone somewhere (sometimes a stranger) will say “Thank you – I needed to read that”. Ah, that’s the reason. That’s why I felt compelled to sit, to put pen to paper. To type away even when I’m dangerously close to being late for Mass.
It’s no coincidence that my writing has been off while at the same time I’ve felt flat spiritually. I have not been still enough to listen for that faint idea, the glimmer of a thought. Come Holy Spirit.
So, what is the point of this Cathi? Not sure. Maybe I just needed to acknowledge it. To again realize that I cannot rely on myself to craft words and phrases and somewhat rambling reflections. That I cannot rely on myself to have a good Lent. To be humbled once again. To be taught patience once again. Maybe I needed to be reminded that I can put pen to paper, that words can still flow.
Maybe, just maybe, this Lent has not been a complete failure after all. Amen.
Marriage is weird. Two people meet. Hi, I like you. I like you too. Want to hang out? Then days, weeks, months, years go by. So much life happens. Amazing fun adventure, heartbreaking, hard days. Babies and jobs and bills and crappy cars and trying to make rent. And more years go by. The person we’ve fallen in love with changes. We change. We grow, we dream new dreams, we let some dreams go. We’re different but the same.
Marriage isn’t sunshine and roses; it’s compromise and sacrifice. It’s deciding – intentionally choosing – to put another person’s needs and wants before your own, day in and day out.
It’s lying awake at 2am, listening to him snore and contemplating smothering him with a pillow. It would look like a heart attack, not that out of the realm of possibility. And then one day, you’re driving in the car or taking a walk, and you look over, and you are so overwhelmed with how much you love him that you almost cry. From murder to tears – see, it’s weird.
This is marriage. He pulls my car out of the garage and starts it every morning. And he turns on the seat warmer.
Here’s to marriage. Here’s to the ordinary days and the little things that keep us going. Here’s to commitment and sacrifice and so much love. Here’s to us.
I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day and I thought I saw a dear friend of mine walk in. Almost shouted “Hello!” But then I realized it wasn’t her. I remembered that she had moved away more than a decade ago. It’s not likely I’ll see her in person ever again. But that does not diminish the friendship that we had. Not at all.
I truly believe in seasons of friendship. God provides us with the people we need exactly when we need them. And it’s usually not apparent at the time. It’s only in hindsight that it can be truly appreciated.
Some things I’ve learned is that sustaining a friendship takes effort on both sides. True friendship can’t be forced and when a person chooses to walk away, for whatever reason, you’ve got to respect their choice. You might not understand it, and it can be hard. I’ve experienced this many times and it took awhile before I stopped blaming myself or thinking that I had somehow let that person down. Guess what Cathi, not everything is about you. (Insert shocked face emoji).
And sometimes it’s just that life pulls you in other directions. It’s not that there wasn’t truth and happiness and purpose to the friendship. There absolutely was. But now lives are different and that purpose has shifted. Changed. And although your life does not include that other person in the same frequency or proximity, the roots are there.
So to the friends who I’ve had from the start, I love you. I’m grateful for you every single day.
For the people who I had for just a season, I’m so grateful for every minute you were in my life. And I wish you every happiness. I still treasure every laugh, every tear that we shared.
To my new friends, I’m so excited you’re here! I love that our paths have crossed and I’m loving every new step we take together.
Here’s to you my friends. You have shaped me, pushed me, made me want to be a better person, taught me so much. The word “blessed” gets thrown around a lot. But I think it’s accurate here. Y’all have blessed this cold, cold heart. I love you.
Christmas Day is not my favorite. To be honest, it’s always felt like a bit of a letdown. Christmas Eve is where I find the joy. That moment on earth when it seems that peace is truly possible, where the veil between heaven and earth is so thin. Christmas Eve is truly a holy night.
When I was growing up, Christmas Eve meant the star on the mountain, my mom singing O Holy Night at the end of our church service, such a quiet, beautiful night. I grew up in west Texas, so imagining Mary and Joseph in the cold desert night was not a stretch of the imagination. I looked at the stars. It felt like the world was at peace for that moment in time. That was Christmas to me.
As an adult the traditions are different. Midnight Mass, It’s a Wonderful Life on TV, filling the stockings. Trying to remember where I stashed all the baby Jesus statues for the nativity scenes. But I still look up, I feel that sense of peace that is especially poignant.
So on this, my favorite day, here is my wish for us all.
Even if the laundry isn’t done. If the family is driving you crazy. If the cookies are burned. If the dog ate the gift tags. If the store was out of hash browns. If the present is on backorder. If you can’t find the corkscrew (that would be bad!). If the neighbors parked in your yard. If the relationship is still broken. If the ones you love are far away or struggling. If your heart is open wide or if it feels impenetrable.
Even if.
Find a few moments to go outside tonight. Look up. Find a star. Breathe in and out. Feel the peace come in. A weary world rejoices.
May the peace of a quiet moment on the holiest of nights stay with you. Oh holy night, oh night divine. Merry Christmas.
You can’t pour from an empty cup. I’ve read these words hundreds of times. On a magnet, coincidentally on a mug, we’ve all heard it. It’s so familiar that I never thought much about what it means until recently.
My expectations for 2021 were low. It was good to have 2020 behind us, but I knew the new year wouldn’t be all roses and unicorns. And I was already depleted. I’m not the only one. We’ve all been living through extended trauma, and that takes its toll. Physically, mentally, spiritually. We were all feeling it. Still feeling it.
I remember driving in my car – maybe in the spring or early summer – and I could not, try as I might, remember what it felt like to be happy. I realized that I hadn’t felt happy for a long while. I was so tired of feeling anxious and sad and mad and hurt and resentful that I had thrown up the walls around me so that none of it got in, not even the good stuff. This is not a great coping mechanism – one star – would not recommend.
I’m a big encourager of others and a high empath. This means that I like to lift up other people, and I want to help. Often, this looks like listening to others and saying, I’m sorry and I hear you and I wish I could fix it. This gift of encouragement comes from God, and I am so thankful for it, but it can also be draining. As Jackson Browne says, when you’re running on empty, you feel like you’re always running behind. I had nothing to give most days. I left texts unanswered, phone calls unreturned, tasks undone.
I can’t say exactly when it started getting better, when the fog began to lift. When I didn’t feel quite so empty.
I had a great summer. So many fun times, new experiences, treasured times with friends and family. It still felt a bit muted, not full-on happy, but I was thankful and grateful – all the things in the country song. Gradually, throughout the late summer and fall, I started to feel myself again. And one sunny day I noticed that I felt happy. Best of all, I felt like I had something to give back. I could pour again.
We’re heading into winter, which is not my favorite season. I was thinking about the inevitability of winter the other day and a word came to me: rest. This season when the trees go dormant, when the animals hibernate, when we’re forced inside by the bitter cold, it’s time to rest. A new, welcome perspective for me. I can’t say I’m looking forward to winter, but I can honestly say I’m not dreading it. This is big for me. I’m leaving this year feeling more myself than I’ve felt in a very long time. I feel replenished. I’m so grateful for it.
Rest will be my mantra this winter. Rest for soul and body. Being intentional about what I say yes to, where I put my energy. No resolutions, or lists, or challenges for the new year. Why do we do that to ourselves?
The world is not less crazy than it was a year ago. In fact, I would argue that’s it’s even more upside down. But God still reigns. He’s given us all we need. I wish you rest this winter. Rest for your heart and mind and body. Rest to replenish us all so that we’re ready for the road ahead, whether rocky or smooth.
Rejoice always, the scripture says. Always, in all ways. In all things. So easy to do when the path seems clear of obstacles; on the good, ordinary days. Yes, praise be to God. Thank you for this easy road, thank you for friendships that fill my soul, for my family that I cherish, for health and home, for your mercy and grace Lord.
I lay a lot of things at God’s feet. I make decisions and take action and pray a silent “let your plans for my life be the desire of my heart.” With a grateful heart, I thank Him when things go to (my) plan, and when they don’t, with a begrudging heart, I say, “this isn’t what I want, but I trust you.”
Can we have joy and disappointment at the same time? Can we hold both joy and grief at once? When heartbreaking, life-changing, never-will-be-the-same-again grief takes hold – where is the joy? How do we rejoice in the Lord when we can barely take another breath? When the disappointment cuts us to our core? When the thing for which we’ve been praying for months or years passes us by once again? Rejoice always? Even now, Lord?
I think in those instances, it is hope that precedes joy. When the wave of grief pulls us down, when disappointment breaks our heart, it is hope that will pull us back to joy. Not in a moment, not in an hour or a day, but in God’s time, it will manifest from a faraway light in the darkness to the blinding light of God’s love. And then the joy will come. The rejoicing can begin again.
If you are deep in the wave, if you cannot find joy, look for hope.
We can hold grief in one hand and hope in the other. We can hope for our hearts to be healed, for peace to come, for God’s mercy and grace to pour out on us.
We cannot manifest this out of the air. We cannot, by sheer willpower, rejoice always. In all ways. The Holy Spirit works through us and in us and for us. It will turn the grief to hope and the hope to joy. And out of the joy, we will be rejoicing once more. Hold onto hope, don’t let go. Let God love you through it. And let his mercy and peace that surpasses our earthly efforts turn it into lasting joy.
Girl Loves Guitar Boy 