I have spent time.
I have met twice with my new spiritual director, a Benedictine priest who currently serves as a pastor in a parish just a few dozen miles north of Johnstown.
I have tried to encourage the storm.
I have planned and attended meetings with 3 Altoona-Johnstown diocesan pastors.
I have made my 'Informal Visit' with the Congregation of Holy Cross at Notre Dame, IN.
Thank you for caring.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for your patience as I struggle forward.
I hope that one day I will be something fixed in vocation and operating for good.
Thank you for each prayer you ever have or ever will pray for me.
Friday, November 28, 2014
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
I Heard Myself
Around 3:15 this afternoon, I listened intently to the words I heard coming out of my own mouth, sharing the concentration of my 4 person, high school senior, EM-in-training audience. At once, I was forming the thoughts into sentences pouring from my mouth, and digesting the meaning of those sentences through my ears into my mind and, unexpectedly, into my heart.
Sometimes I get the chance to enjoy surprise conversions through the medium I least expect to become the source of conversion: myself.
This year has been difficult already. I am straining under the pressure and exhaustion of processing ongoing discernment, drastic family relocations, and (essentially) 2 new jobs.
I have not done well at resting, exercising, praying, or keeping in touch. Despite all personal experience, scientific data, and warning signs, some good habits always seem beyond me and some lazy ones always latch on.
But even within the teetering heart of a deepening-ly ramshackle life, I get surprised by joy. Today, as I listened to myself offering moments-previously-dormant-but-now-passionate elucidations of the significance of the Eucharist, the mystery of our participation in Gods mission of salvation to all humanity through Jesus Christ, and the unfathomable beauty of God's freely willed offering of love through unfathomably vulnerable intimacy both in his human infancy and in his Real Presence in the Eucharist, I reminded myself of a young Me. And I remembered. I became alive again. And everything suddenly, if momentarily, reverted to its original and perpetual nature as gift.
Joy flew in and out and the battle trudges on.
But today, if only for a moment, I heard myself, and I reminded myself of another Me, a young Me, who encouraged me to hope again.
Thank God for moments like today when I can finally forget myself enough to allow God's memory to become my own. And things are well again.
Sometimes I get the chance to enjoy surprise conversions through the medium I least expect to become the source of conversion: myself.
This year has been difficult already. I am straining under the pressure and exhaustion of processing ongoing discernment, drastic family relocations, and (essentially) 2 new jobs.
I have not done well at resting, exercising, praying, or keeping in touch. Despite all personal experience, scientific data, and warning signs, some good habits always seem beyond me and some lazy ones always latch on.
But even within the teetering heart of a deepening-ly ramshackle life, I get surprised by joy. Today, as I listened to myself offering moments-previously-dormant-but-now-passionate elucidations of the significance of the Eucharist, the mystery of our participation in Gods mission of salvation to all humanity through Jesus Christ, and the unfathomable beauty of God's freely willed offering of love through unfathomably vulnerable intimacy both in his human infancy and in his Real Presence in the Eucharist, I reminded myself of a young Me. And I remembered. I became alive again. And everything suddenly, if momentarily, reverted to its original and perpetual nature as gift.
Joy flew in and out and the battle trudges on.
But today, if only for a moment, I heard myself, and I reminded myself of another Me, a young Me, who encouraged me to hope again.
Thank God for moments like today when I can finally forget myself enough to allow God's memory to become my own. And things are well again.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Discerning, Changing
The time to beginHas certainly come to pass.
Let it not escape.
The weight of living
Touches me invisibly,
But now, time to breathe.
Moments race as if
The present were not enough
Space or time for them.
Lead, Kindly Light through
the encircling glood, Lord lead
me on, Lord, lead me.
Breathe, okay, breathe, yes
Yes, yes, oh no okay breathe
Sleep, Rest in His peace.
Each wave seems taller
The shadow lies, it is small.
Learning eases fear.
Let it not escape.
The weight of living
Touches me invisibly,
But now, time to breathe.
Moments race as if
The present were not enough
Space or time for them.
Lead, Kindly Light through
the encircling glood, Lord lead
me on, Lord, lead me.
Breathe, okay, breathe, yes
Yes, yes, oh no okay breathe
Sleep, Rest in His peace.
Each wave seems taller
The shadow lies, it is small.
Learning eases fear.
Friday, August 8, 2014
The Fog Warning
The background for this blog depicts repeating tiles of a Winslow Homer painting titled 'The Fog Warning'. For a brief analysis of the painting click here.
Most recently, I have felt like that fisherman in the dory boat. Miles out at sea, the shoreline miles out of sight, my only hope is the large, main fishing vessel. My only hope rests in the ship from which I have launched hours ago and to which I hope I will soon return with my day's work, my day's catch, in tow.
The fisherman's lot fascinated Winslow Homer as the priest's lot fascinates me. Each of these lots is so profoundly solitary, so inescapably meaningful, so easily overlooked, so fraught by the peril of fog, so perpetually desirous of greater clarity, greater discernment, with regard to where to point the bow and chart the course.
I once was told that in ancient, native Australian wisdom, the human walks backward through time and life. The person can't clearly see where she will be, but she can see where she has been.
I have grown up thinking that my future was ahead of me and my past behind me. I thought I had to turn myself around to view my past, and I thought looking back at my past was a counterproductive and sentimental ceremony. Now, I believe my future is behind me and my past ahead of me, stretched out before my eyes. I believe that my discernment essentially consists of conforming my position and my posture to match the fisherman. I cannot face the ship if I wish to reach it. I must turn my back to it, point the bow, chart the course, and work. Sure, I have to peek over my shoulder to measure my movement, but my vision is better spent studying where I've been and where I am than escaping into the fantasy of futures beyond my control and beyond my vision.
Easier said than done, I guess.
As I rock and reel in this tiny boat, I, too, sometimes hear the fog warning and know that there may come a time when I can no longer see the ship at all, when I am lost at sea, blinded by the fog and blindly hoping to find the ship once again.
Please pray for me to row hard, to turn my eyes rightly, and to hope through the fog, and I will pray for you in your fog.
Most recently, I have felt like that fisherman in the dory boat. Miles out at sea, the shoreline miles out of sight, my only hope is the large, main fishing vessel. My only hope rests in the ship from which I have launched hours ago and to which I hope I will soon return with my day's work, my day's catch, in tow.
The fisherman's lot fascinated Winslow Homer as the priest's lot fascinates me. Each of these lots is so profoundly solitary, so inescapably meaningful, so easily overlooked, so fraught by the peril of fog, so perpetually desirous of greater clarity, greater discernment, with regard to where to point the bow and chart the course.
I once was told that in ancient, native Australian wisdom, the human walks backward through time and life. The person can't clearly see where she will be, but she can see where she has been.
I have grown up thinking that my future was ahead of me and my past behind me. I thought I had to turn myself around to view my past, and I thought looking back at my past was a counterproductive and sentimental ceremony. Now, I believe my future is behind me and my past ahead of me, stretched out before my eyes. I believe that my discernment essentially consists of conforming my position and my posture to match the fisherman. I cannot face the ship if I wish to reach it. I must turn my back to it, point the bow, chart the course, and work. Sure, I have to peek over my shoulder to measure my movement, but my vision is better spent studying where I've been and where I am than escaping into the fantasy of futures beyond my control and beyond my vision.
Easier said than done, I guess.
As I rock and reel in this tiny boat, I, too, sometimes hear the fog warning and know that there may come a time when I can no longer see the ship at all, when I am lost at sea, blinded by the fog and blindly hoping to find the ship once again.
Please pray for me to row hard, to turn my eyes rightly, and to hope through the fog, and I will pray for you in your fog.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Why
Dear Everybody,
I am creating this blog to become better at keeping in touch.
I have always done especially poorly at calling or writing or otherwise reaching out to people whom I love with a frequency which adequately reflects just how much I do miss them and how much I do love them.
By writing this blog, I hope to share more of my life, in its organic narrative form, more fully and more frequently with you, the ones I love but with whom I cannot be present.
The fact that I cannot be with you now does not mean that I have forgotten you or that I have abandoned gratitude for your gifts to me.
Neither does my writing this blog suggest that my life is in anyway newsworthy or noteworthy.
I fully recognize that your reading this blog represents something of 'wasted time.'
Reading this is not going to show up on any resume; it won't carry any credit toward continued education; I am not a recognized authority on anything.
I just want to hang out with you, my friends who are far away, and 'waste time,' because that's what friends do. I think that's what love is.
At any rate, I offer this blog as a new attempt at being present to you and reminding you that you who have walked with me are always present to me.
I hope to chart the waves and ripples ahead of me, beginning with the first stages of seminary-discernment of my vocation.
I'll try to make it interesting, not by fabricating or exaggerating, but by keeping things either short or sweet or sometimes both.
Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
I am creating this blog to become better at keeping in touch.
I have always done especially poorly at calling or writing or otherwise reaching out to people whom I love with a frequency which adequately reflects just how much I do miss them and how much I do love them.
By writing this blog, I hope to share more of my life, in its organic narrative form, more fully and more frequently with you, the ones I love but with whom I cannot be present.
The fact that I cannot be with you now does not mean that I have forgotten you or that I have abandoned gratitude for your gifts to me.
Neither does my writing this blog suggest that my life is in anyway newsworthy or noteworthy.
I fully recognize that your reading this blog represents something of 'wasted time.'
Reading this is not going to show up on any resume; it won't carry any credit toward continued education; I am not a recognized authority on anything.
I just want to hang out with you, my friends who are far away, and 'waste time,' because that's what friends do. I think that's what love is.
At any rate, I offer this blog as a new attempt at being present to you and reminding you that you who have walked with me are always present to me.
I hope to chart the waves and ripples ahead of me, beginning with the first stages of seminary-discernment of my vocation.
I'll try to make it interesting, not by fabricating or exaggerating, but by keeping things either short or sweet or sometimes both.
Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
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