Mirror, mirror on my phone: Finding identity in a digital age (a short story)

I sink into a chair and check my phone. My morning has been rough—kids bickering and dishes piling and I need to connect. Just connect. Tell me, little black box, about my place in the world… affirm me.

So I look to my social media apps and spot Instagram. I love Instagram. Inordinately? I don’t know. But I’m just resting for a minute. So it’s fine. It’s fine. I have notifications so my endorphins kick in and I click. Because I need that boost, you know? And there it is…

Mirror, mirror on the wall… who am I today?

Wait and see. Connection. Affirmation. Well, I’m here for it. I need it. Probably.

I see the beautiful people and the “raw” people. Maybe it’s make-up free Monday… I don’t know. What day is it again? I should probably wash the dishes. And then I click my messages and it begins…

A woman I have never met expresses concern. Because she doesn’t see herself in me and it grates. She wants to know if I am racist. Just to be sure. To console herself? Or confirm? I don’t know…

No, I’m not.
You must be.
I’m not.
Where’s your black box? Why don’t I see myself reflected in you? Why don’t I understand you? Why aren’t you more loving? Why are you ignorant?

I don’t know. Who are you again? Who am I? Mirror, mirror on my phone…

So I tentatively pick up that label that I know isn’t mine and carry it just for a little while… nestled in my irritation. Because isn’t that what a Christian girl does? Humility. Gentleness. They always get to strike the other cheek. They get to tell me who I am. Don’t they?

No, they don’t. I know these things and I know why. But I can’t finish my thought because I have a notification. Ugh… it has power over me and I don’t even care. I feel the struggle and want to rise but I’m not up to it. The dishes are still there. And it feels like a headache and stomach ache are both in my throat…

Creepy message from a single man in Albania.
Kind words from friends and strangers.
Articles, memes, chatter that I love.
And a few more…

“It’s people like you…”
”Stupid…”

I’m tired and there’s a tiny nagging temptation just to agree for the sake of silence. To delete what I’ve written. To become invisible.

I’m a dumb racist. It’s okay. I’m learning and growing and they are teaching me. Teaching me about myself. I never did have much confidence and this is why. They know better… they always do…

Whoever they are. The louder ones.

And so I leave Instagram with my bag of self-knowledge partially filled and my mind battling with half-truths and the search for virtue. I go to Twitter where no one ever likes my Tweets and it’s fine. I’ve never been witty anyway. It’s fine, it’s fine.

I like to read and learn… and today, I need connection and affirmation. I also don’t want to to wash the dishes.

Hello acedia… I know you are here. Hello sloth and gluttony and pride and all the others! You’re already in my bag. I’ll get to you later. Later. Be quiet for now… I’m connecting.

I see topics trending and read back a couple days to catch up because I’m out of touch. I never can catch up but I should try. I know I should. And so I see some popular Catholics weighing in. They couldn’t see me and didn’t talk to me but they talked about me…

Well, not about me exactly… because I’m invisible on Twitter. It’s best that way. But they talked about people like me and what we think, and some of them called me names.

Not me personally, you understand. But my kind. My type. You know the ones… Ignorant, uncharitable, shockingly lacking in any sense of justice.

Sigh. What is truth? Who are you? Who am I?

I try to reach out and they bite my hand. Maybe it was accidental. But they call me “Honey” and “Friend” and how likely is it that every word of greeting on Twitter is sarcastic or condescending? Well… never mind. I don’t know. Who does know? They seem to know.

“Stupid.”
”Really?”
*eye roll*
”Rigid.”
”Hardly Catholic”

I pick up my affirmations (that is what I came for after all) and put them in my bag and put my bag on my back… and some of the heavy things leake into my heart. Heavy.

That’s because it’s all so real, I think. Enough shallow social media fluff! We need real and raw. It’s gritty. Because real holiness is gritty…

So I admire the weight of my introspective labels and put on my brave face to repeat them. I’m enlightened now, I think…

I am a racist, ignorant, witless, unloving, invisible garbage person. And this heaviness, of course, is the presence of growing humility and awareness. I am connected to my faults and growing. Growing.

I think about the dishes and feel a little sad… I just can’t overcome the dishes. If I only had a dishwasher. Not my fault. But perhaps I can try harder today and win the battle. After Facebook. It won’t take long.

And I click with a weary finger, a little heavy now. The failures of the day are gathering weight. And momentum.

I am enlightened and lifted by connection. My community keeps me going.
Click.
Stumble.
Repeat.
I should really get off my phone.

Facebook doesn’t disappoint and I have notifications that scroll down for 8 inches. My endorphin response proves ever-faithful. I’ve touched one soul and hurt another. I’m a good Christian. I’m a false Catholic. I’m arrogant and small-minded. I’m dangerous. I’m a gift.

I pick up all the words and the light ones slip through my fingers and the heavy ones remained. I say they refine me. Because I know that the virtuous soul is humble and takes correction. But who is teaching me? Who is refining? It’s all a bit of a blur.

Messenger notifications announce a new message and I click again. Someone is there who wants to talk to me. And he does… Even though he doesn’t know me, he kicks me. And I shrink.

“Obnoxious faithless fool.”

He knows more. He has letters. He has authority. And he keeps kicking and I fight back a little and then set boundaries. I have cancelled him. Maybe they’re right about me. I’m intolerant… of kicking. Broken. Ignorant. Weak. Ridiculous. He is wrong. Yet he is right.

Somewhere in between enlightenment and the next app, my courage fails and I start to cry. I am overwhelmed, perhaps by the blessing of connection. Of course. It is all so raw and real. And the heaviness is too much for me because I am a loser. I feel anxious and depressed because I am carrying that identity. Loser. I was born with it, they say. And I allow words to shake me and form me…

Ignorant white b!*%#, invisible, garbage, unloving, witless, arrogant loser.

And I can’t walk to the kitchen sink. And I can’t move. Because I went looking for my identity… from the mouths of liars.

My head falls to the table and my knees hit the proverbial floor. Not the real floor. Because really, I’m just frozen. But I lay my virtual identity at the foot of the Cross. I almost forgot to do that, but, you know, my heart just couldn’t carry it… and He can.

Here I am, Lord. This is me. I’m sorry. You’ll have to fix it. I can’t do it. I can’t even get the dishes done and even really really bad moms can get the dishes done.

He looks me in the soul and asks…

Is this who you are?

And when I look back, I see myself in His eyes and I know.

No, Lord. I am many terrible things. I am a great sinner. I am a fool. But these labels I carry today are from liars. And I have placed myself in their hands instead of placing myself in Yours. Refine me.

I don’t hear an answer even though I wait so long. It’s never as simple as the children’s saints stories. And the adult versions are so bloody. My mind wanders and rattles. It cannot just sit and wait. I remember how the enemy once gave me an identity that almost destroyed me…

It called me nothing. failure. regret. worthless. And it was Christ alone who reached into those lies and saved not only my mind and soul… but also my body. I had given up.

The voices are a mirror, Lord, but you are a window. You are life. I recognize the demons and fidget uncomfortably while I wait for rescue.

Disappointed in the silence from outside and the noise inside, I give up and look at the dishes. So much disappointment. But also clarity. And so I take my place at the sink and pick up a glass.

It is heavy, Lord. The glass is heavy. Heavier than it was before I went looking for myself in the chatter of the ones with voices.

Hush. You walked into a room of thieves. Did you expect to retreat unscathed? You were foolish. But you are not who they say you are. Who are you?

I am Melody. I am small and broken. I am Yours.

And as I washed, I healed. A young child wandered out of bed and as she greeted me, she pieced me together…

Good morning, Mommy.
What color am I, Little One?
You are pink. And brown. And peach.
And who am I?
You are my mommy.

And she takes my hands… and her hand cannot fully embrace mine because I hold my phone. I have to let go of my digital burden in order to accept her wholly. And my identity is illuminated. I am very happy to be a somebody for no reason other than the desire of a child to be connected to me.

I move imperfectly through my day. And I go to bed with dishes in the sink.

I set my bag down on the floor. I have cleaned it out with God’s grace but the residue remains. It’s hard to clean a bag like that after it has been made foul. I should throw it away… but I’m kind of attached. Maybe I can keep the bag and figure out a way to wash it better.

In the morning, I awaken and repeat the whole process again. But some days, I grow a little in His care and shrink a little more into His arms. And the best days are the ones when no one is allowed to teach me about who I am other than the One Who created me.

The desolation of hope, the failure of Christians, and why I trust you anyway

The constant flood of negativity and fear surrounding COVID-19 has reached devastating proportions. Typically, Americans struggle well together, courageously united against a common enemy or disaster (WWII, 911, and Katrina come to mind ). The marked division of the COVID crisis has a uniquely negative quality, becoming more sharply defined as fear increases.

The reason is obvious: the enemy is not outside of us. The enemy is us.

We are trying to band together and doing so successfully in many ways, but progress is complicated by the underlying fear that the enemy is invisible except for the faces of friends. We will throw ourselves into a burning building or flood waters to rescue strangers, but disease is a different psychological beast.

The protective action of quarantine is passive. There is an intentional withholding and isolation; intended for good, but not without negative consequences when taken to an unhealthy (unholy) degree. This isolation, combined with constant fear mongering from our digital connections, inevitably grows into a reluctance to take risks, a growing suspicion of neighbors, and nurtured, distinct, and pervasive fear of others.

Many seem almost compulsively driven to spread that fear. This inclination is certainly easier to cultivate than the virtue of hope. And I can understand the impassioned desire to keep people safe during a time of uncertainty. For example: Wash your hands. Stay Home. Great message…within reason, of course. Don’t wash your hands compulsively and do go out if you ought. But in general, it is good advice.

But after weeks of the same driving message, accompanied by intense shaming, blaming, anger, and panic…I became confused by anxious intensity. Confused not only by the decline in civility and compassion but also the absence of the typical buoyancy of the human spirit.

My social media feed is carefully cultivated to include people of faith who communicate truth, beauty, and hope to my mind. I also love a good rousing discussion/debate with people who ultimately know how to reign it in and give it to God. However, during this crisis, many otherwise reasonable people changed. The most surprising discovery has been that the message of fear from Christians matched the secular response step for step.

Any deviance from a sustained and fierce level of corona-fear has been shouted down. Virtual caution tape has been placed around commenters who share a word of hope. They are isolated with fierce accusations. The bitterness of the words used strikes me as alarmingly close to hatred.

I didn’t initially understand why. But, I think I understand now. It makes sense…

People are afraid that if they allow hope to flourish, their neighbors will stop taking precautions, the contagion will spread, and everyone will die. They believe (on some level) that encouraging hope will cause relaxed vigilance in safety measures.

In short, they are afraid of the stupidity and carelessness of their neighbors, family, and friends. They don’t trust you. They don’t trust me. They know the human condition and have been hurt by it. The weapon of fear, whether used consciously (hello politicians and CNN) or subconsciously, is ultimately about control. Unmitigated fear breeds spectacular levels of selfishness.

They know you’ll screw it up and that terrifies them.
They aren’t wholly wrong…but let’s get back to that later.

BITTER OLD WOMEN

This fear-based approach reminds me of the ubiquitous bitter old woman who feels the need to constantly take younger women down a peg. If you’ve been a younger mom, you likely know the type. She is filled with regret and pain from a life of hurt. She is depressed. She is angry. She is emotionally and physically isolated. She feels a moral certainty that young women will suffer as she has suffered and she wants to warn them.

And so she does…

“Four kids, eh? Ha. You’re in for it!”
“Don’t you know what causes that, young man! You leave your wife alone in the bedroom!”
”Get a job, honey. Don’t depend on anyone!”
”Having so many kids is selfish! Stop thinking with your hormones.”

Aside from being rude, the fundamental problem with this approach is that it accomplishes nothing but to feed bitterness and fear in the already fearful, and to rob the free of their peace of mind. This is different from offering advice and information from a place of kindness and a position of friendship…

It is much more like trying to teach children while screaming in their faces.

The invariable outcome is some measure of injury, traumatic response, or fear. Fear harms the body, makes one more vulnerable to illness by suppressing immune function, initiates instincts of survival and promotes dangerous forms of selfishness (ie hoarding, looting, withdrawing from the needy, sinful anger, neglect of others). When this panic is widespread among a populace, bad things happen.

CONTROL AND FEAR

The bitter old woman cannot make a pregnant woman un-pregnant. She cannot prevent her from suffering. Her self-centered words of warning serve only to introduce sorrow and fear to a woman who has a right to peace of mind and joy in new life. The older woman isn’t really concerned about the well-being of others. Her bitter words are the complaint of her own heart…the result of many private tears that seem to bear no fruit and offer no consolation.

For those who fear illness and plague and actively suppress the hope of others, the effect is similar. It is a useless but damaging way to control undesirable behavior. An expression of their own fear projected onto those who are seen (consciously or subconsciously) as obstacles to peace and security.

“Stay home, healthy people! Or you will kill someone! Like me! You will ruin my life, my family, everything that makes me happy.”

Last I checked, there were millions of essential workers, single parents, and sole family providers who must leave the house to work. And thank God they do. There are also millions more who must eat, must seek medical care, breathe fresh air, must relieve depression, and who suffer from disability and deadly isolation.

These people are not killers.

To shame them is like shaming the pregnant woman for being pregnant or for daring to think that the future might contain beautiful things; for knowing that she will love her child regardless of what the doctor said about odds of disability; for believing life might not be as bad as people say; for smiling when other people cannot.

I have seen many articles of hope shared on the internet in recent days. Expert opinions showing the possibility that the spread of disease has been miscalculated and that the numbers moving forward are more positive than expected. That maybe we have already reached peak in certain cities. That hospitals are prepared. That there have been some discrepancies in reported numbers from other countries. Possibilities, not certainties. But still possible.

People read and feel relief. Their bodies relax. They start to heal, and sleep seems possible again.

To take that hope “down a peg” is not only cruel, it is dangerous and immoral. We die without hope. We shrivel. We become selfish and angry. We do rash things. We embrace deadly chains. And still, the fear of even professed Christians manifests…

Tone down your hope. Tone it down! It’s not true. It’s dangerous. You’ll give people the idea that maybe things aren’t as bad as they are. They’ll go out to parties. They won’t wash their hands. And we’ll all die. We’ll all get sick and die. Your hope must not be allowed to rise…because it conflicts with my need to control my life and my fear.

THE CHRISTIAN FAIL

More alarming than the persistent fear-mongering is that it is prominent among Christians. And ironically, it is peaking during the holy season of Lent when we are supposed to be immersed in the TRUTH. The Truth that we all die. And that Easter comes, the realization of all hope.

This time of crisis, fear, and suffering is what Christians have been preparing for. We are made for this moment! It is the moment when the world is gripped with terror over this thing called DEATH and for which we hold the key.

This is where we step into the arena and say with confidence:

O death, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. (1 Corinthians 15:55-57)

We should be preaching this from every platform we have, radiant with joy and hope. This is our time. This is the open door. This is our neighbors nailed to their crosses of fear begging for hope, and it is the moment of grace in which we have the very answer they need…

The ONLY answer.

This is our Mother Teresa moment. We set aside our fear of death and maggots and we pick up the suffering (literally or virtually) on the street and bring them home to live or die. She was exposed constantly to disease and yet she continued to touch people. Physically. Because she knew…

Isolation of body, mind, and soul are deadly.

She did not leave the dying alone to die. And if she were alive now, she would not. She would hold them and bathe them and give them to God.

To some, she might say “Stay home!” But never would she suppress hope by suggesting that there was anything which death could steal from us. Never would she neglect the soul over care for the body.

Fr. Jacque Philippe writes that “If hope is extinguished, love grows cold. A world without hope soon becomes a world without love…God does not give according to our merits, but according to our hope.”

We will not only be held accountable for how we have nurtured hope in our own lives, but in how we have supported it — or destroyed it — in others.

Pouring anger and shame onto their situation is like badgering the pregnant woman. Pestering the grieving. Tormenting the fearful. Inciting panic among those who cannot sleep as a result of anxiety. Buying all the toilet paper to prep for the zombie apocalypse while shaming others for leaving home to provide for their own basic needs. Screaming about death and ignoring the ones who are dying in hopeless and terrified isolation.

Is this the same community which has previously poured out support for the countless people we know suffering from anxiety and depression? It cannot be. Is this how we serve each other? It is appalling and inconsistent.

THE ESSENTIAL MESSAGE OF HOPE:
YOU WILL DIE. YOU WILL LIVE.

Social media is filled with aimless and angry grieving over this unknown variable known as COVID-19. But compassion for those grieving other losses is often suppressed:

Those who have lost income, housing, companionship, sacraments, major life events, health care, exercise, ability to come home, right to vote, education, access to sick loved ones, community resources, etc. are not allowed to grieve publicly..s

Because it is too close to permission; permission to seek an alternative other than complete control over human behavior.

When pressed, a Christian will always concede that Jesus is the answer to the question of fear and disease. But it is the daily words and actions which give the impression of something different…

Hold on, Jesus. We’ll get back to you in a couple months. We have to save the world. Oh, you did that already? Well, kind of. I mean you did…but not like this. We have to stop COVID. That’s different. You understand, of course. We know you’ll understand. This is a special circumstance. We are all going to die, Lord, if we don’t do something. What? Oh, of course…we are all going to die anyway. But this is different. This is different.

As if we can walk into the valley of the shadow of death without Christ and live.

Much of my work as a writer is dedicated to the subject of bodily healing. I spend significant time and effort teaching Christians about the obligation to care for this physical gift, the only vehicle through which we are able to serve others. I find it ironic that those who ignore the message of health during normal times are panicking about the potential loss now. And I will have more to say about that in the near future.

I know both the value of good health and also the experience of its loss. I fight daily against the affects of disease. This ever present reality helps me to recall that there is no more essential element to spiritual, physical, and mental health than HOPE. And I’m done with the deadly voices of fear. They put all of us at greater risk, especially the most physically, mentally, and spiritually vulnerable among us.

RETURN TO HOPE

It is Lent, friends. Repent and receive the Gospel. This is our time. And, as hard as it is sometimes to say…I TRUST YOU.

I trust you to be responsible with hope.
I trust you with hope.
I trust you.

I trust you to stay informed.
I trust you to take reasonable precautions.
I trust you to leave home if you need to.
I trust you to drive next to me on the highway with a ton of metal filled with explosive fuel.
I trust you to prepare my food,
teach my children,
operate on my flesh,
keep the bridges from falling down,
keep the lions in cages,
and keep my car running.

Trust is essential to living in community. If we do not, at some point, lay down this belief that we can stay insulated from the decisions of others (good or bad), we will die alone and in fear, killing the hope (and flesh) of others with our angry bitterness.

I trust you to make good decisions. I also accept the fact that you (and I) will screw it up. But…

That’s life.
And still…I choose to trust you.

More than that, we must trust God. There is no fear worthy of a Christian other than the fear of separation from Christ. He is hope. He is life.

We must stay informed and be prudent, careful and discerning. We can be alarmed and frighted, alert and grieving, angry, spirited, active, engaged…But at no time can we actively suppress hope in others without tragic consequences. We will be held accountable.

This virus will run its course. People will die. The overwhelming majority will live to die another day. And hopefully, we will eventually recall that life is not fundamentally about control over our manner of death .

I AM NOT AFRAID.
I am not afraid of death.
Jesus has conquered and reigns.

If that sounds trite and dismissive to you, then perhaps you have lost your fervor and need to return to the Gospel. It is Lent after all. It is time.

Later tonight, I will lay down in the silence and grapple again with my fears. I will face them one by one until I can’t get any further in my imagination than death. And around 3am or so, I’ll drop off to sleep having given it all to Jesus. Desperate to survive the fear, I will be forced to remember that He is my only HOPE.

In the morning, I will rise again, hopeful but tired. And if I get on social media, I’ll see all the fear again. And if I turn on the news, I’ll see fear. I’ll hear the networks almost giddy with their scripts of fear. My governor will resume talking: Be afraid. It is coming. It is big and bad and it is coming.

And I just can’t sustain that level of panic. I have no other option but to trust you. And to trust God.

I’ve reconciled with COVID-19. I believe that we are creative enough, intelligent enough, respectful enough to live freely with this thing and to live with the reality of death. We will do it with prudence and love. With human contact and sacrament. Without unholy panic…to enkindle holy fire in the world.

It is the perfect time in our lives and in history to become a living testimony to the hope of Jesus Christ. I am eager for Easter (so eager) and hope for the transformation of fear into Joy. I’m praying for the reunion of community and of souls whose vision is unobscured by terror of death.

Repent and believe in the Gospel!
Come, Lord Jesus. Help transform us in Thy grace.

Why I am no longer a Catholic feminist

Disclaimer: (Because I clearly must.)

Dear Sisters…

This post is not about you, it’s about me. It’s not about your friend (or podcaster/author/artist) who calls herself a Catholic feminist. It’s about the public positions I have taken in the past and need to correct. It is about that article I wrote about why I identified as a “Catholic feminist”…and why I have changed my mind.

It is not your humiliation. It is mine. I write publicly and occasionally influence people. And in justice, I need to make a correction. If you think what I write is stupid and harmful, then write your own experience or just don’t share. But be mindful to respectfully address ideas instead of people.

We are not automatons. We should be free to discuss and grapple with these ideas within community without having our feelings perpetually hurt by varying opinions. Peace.

---

I LEFT FEMINISM FOR CHRIST…

I was raised into feminist activism and eagerly stepped into the label. I repeated the anthems of the movement and embraced its heroes. I adored the moderns like Sanger, Steinem, Daly, and generations of women who beat an angry drum against patriarchy, injustice, inequality, and moral boundaries.⁣
⁣
I believed the rhetoric and I was angry. Fed up. Righteous. Perpetually ready for battle.⁣
⁣
When I was forced to attend Mass in Catholic high school, I would stare defiantly at the man called "priest" and change the words of all prayers of humility...

" I AM worthy to receive...you stupid old man."⁣

The message and pounding fierceness of the feminist movement impacted the way I saw all people. It placed my own sense of offense and self-preservation at the center of my universe, successfully interfering with my acceptance of the fatherhood of God.

I was 15-years old and the youngest person in an auditorium of hundreds when I saw notorious feminist, Gloria Steinem, speak. She spoke passionately about feminism and “glass ceilings” to a full house of cheering middle-aged women in business suits. I didn’t fit in even then…but I always figured I could do feminism better than the old ladies.

And yet that angry and united cry of feminism is how I learned about who I was and how I was to view others. From the mouths and pens of prominent feminists to my young mind and soul, the message of feminism permeated my formation. It was inevitable that, in my anger and distorted view of personal dignity, I would also develop a hatred of self, particularly when even feminism failed to protect me from the various injustices and abuses of a largely post-Christian culture. And sometimes, when its proponents were the ones inflicting the wounds.

I won’t get into a discussion of the origins of feminism here. It is irrelevant to my point. The culture has shifted and much damage has been done. And we must face the present devastation, not quibble over beginnings which were never rooted in a Christian worldview even if they were a response to true injustice. If we are going to fight for a restoration, let it not to be to elevate human ideals but to bring Christ the Healer into the center of the wound.

I will always stand with feminists when they fight against true injustice. But feminism invariably goes further in its demands and is inherently spiritual in its elevation of self and overshadowing (or suppressing) of other. Ultimately, there are no other gods and no other persons. And “injustice” is a flexible term which shifts depending on the agenda of the feminist. There is no foundational belief in the dignity of all people.

The unity is a sham. A political ruse. Which often ends in brokenness and frankly, abortion.

I saw first hand the impact of feminism on the Church, well before I loved the Church. I witnessed the anger against the “outdated patriarchy” and saw women working actively within the Church for change. Feminists demanded greater participation for women and took it at every opportunity while simultaneously engaging in pagan ritual, promotion of abortion, and a rejection of a masculine God. This was feminist narcissism at its most deceptive and destructive:

“I don’t really believe what you believe…but I will dedicate my life to pretending to so that I can make you into my own image. Or destroy you.”

If you aren’t familiar with the history of deliberate damage done by feminists in the Church, you will benefit from reading the books Ungodly Rage and The Anti-Mary Exposed. The devastating effect of feminism on the Church is not exaggerated. The reality is shocking.

Feminists have made St. Therese the patron of women priests, Mary Magdalene the erotic lover of Jesus, St Hildegard into a sorceress, and elevated abortion into a sacrament. Feminism has no place in the Church…but it is what I believed and followed.

TRANSFORMATION
⁣
Then in my young adulthood, the Holy Spirit flooded my life like a tsunami. I was helpless against the breathtaking power of Truth and joy. For the first time, I understood the true magnificence of my womanhood and rejoiced at a new shocking freedom and illumination. My feminist mask was revealed for what it was...a sham, a reflection of the spirit of anti-Christ. Empty, distorted, angry, self-worshipping, and suffering bitterly without purpose.

Deeply broken by the circumstances of life and my own bad choices, I was pieced back together by the love of a man (my future husband), who led me straight to the Source of all healing. With my feminist mask shattered, I was able to open myself up to the fatherhood of God and the person of Jesus Christ. My angry fists relaxed and I learned to pray on my knees without a spirit of defiance or unholy fear.

The process of conversion has been a long and slow turning. But reading Pope John Paul II’s "Mulieris Dignitatem" (On the Dignity and Vocation of Women) was a milestone which inspired me to release the last hold that feminism had on my mind and allowed healing and restoration to begin.
⁣
"I am woman, hear me roar" became "To serve is to reign" and my heart fell into a deep well of joy, grace, and peace. My feminism was transformed into "feminine genius" and my angry battle cry into a shower of grateful tears.⁣

Feminism is not just a political identity. It isn’t just a concise way of saying “I care about women and oppose injustice.” It is a spiritual movement of the enemy of God. This is what I did not understand when I embraced it again as a Catholic. (More on that shortly.)

I remain an activist of sorts. I weep and lose sleep over injustice. But I continually strive to place that at the foot of the cross instead of at the altar of my own passions. I have been made new in Christ and I take to heart the words of JPII: “One must arrange one’s life so that everything praises God.” It is too easy to let anger supplant the Gospel. The fight against social evil must be accompanied by an equally vigorous battle against self.

FREEDOM

Femininity is God’s creativity uniquely expressed through woman. Feminism is a political movement. Femininity expresses womanly attributes rooted in natural law. Feminism is a set of demands rooted in a malleable and relative vision of justice. Femininity is freedom to fully pursue the vocation of womanhood in the service of others. Feminism encourages women to fear generous self-donation.
⁣
As I became more Gospel-focused, my femininity became apolitical…

Transcending activism.
Outlasting culture battles.
Silencing identity politics masquerading as social justice.⁣
Softening an ungodly spirit of rage and discontent.
⁣
I was free. And I abandoned the term "feminism" completely for 18 years.

A RETURN TO FEMINISM

In spite of my reticence to be associated in any way with the terminology of feminism, the words of good women convinced me that a new feminism (one that revealed the light of Humane Vitae) was consistent with my Christian understanding of womanhood.

I saw it as a possible antidote and a legitimate expression of the heart of femininity. It wasn’t that I thought the Gospel was deficient but I found that, practically speaking, the Church as a community was failing to teach women the beauty of God’s design for their vocations and bodies. (I still find that many Catholic communities remain ignorant of these things.)

I was reluctant because I saw that the terminology would be misunderstood by almost everyone and that it could lead to a false association with secular feminism. That possibility was horrible to me but the vision of an integrated, holistic, natural, Christ-centered activism was incredibly compelling.

I thought that I could be a part of that even though I knew that it would have to be on the level of individual conversion instead of a mass movement. I had been in the ocean of feminism and knew that it could not be displaced through dialogue or clever marketing. This “new feminism” would have to light a fire from within souls and minds, one person at a time; not with the realistic goal of overtaking the culture but with loving others the Gospel way. The slow way.

When JPII called for a “new feminism,” I never misunderstood him to be calling for a literal movement of Catholic feminists. He was calling for a renewal, an antidote, a return to the heart of the Gospel. He used the term “new feminism” in the much broader context of a Catholic vision of womanhood. He wasn’t supplanting the Gospel but illuminating it and using the term “new feminism” (once) to highlight that this was to be an antidote to a specific and harmful ideology.

I wrote publicly: “I knew that I would always be a feminist insofar as it means that I decry injustice against women and all human beings and promote a culture of life-giving love…and here I am. A New Feminist. Because I believe that women do need a strong voice, a political voice, an activist voice — to defend our inherent right to holistic, life-giving choices in all stages of life.”

He didn’t tell us to start a new club within the Church. He didn’t elevate feminism. He told us to open our eyes to the Truth which was already given to us.

So I embraced the vision of new feminism but remained hesitant about the label “feminist.” To be completely transparent, I used it quite liberally for a time, primarily when talking to secular feminists, because I felt it gave us common ground. I thought it gave me some street cred and authority. If I called myself a “feminist,” they couldn’t just write me off as some sappy Christian.

But the full truth is that many secular feminists were turned off by what they saw as a misapplication of the term. It was mostly only the Catholics who thought it was cool. And on reflection, I see that it was more effective to find common ground without the term, speaking directly with love and sincerity.

I started out saying things like…

“Well, I’m a feminist, too! And I defend the rights of ALL women regardless of age, location, health, or wantedness.”

But I found that this provoked other women to become defensive and to see me as a traitor to feminism. The terminology was a greater obstacle to their openness than leaving it behind because they were preoccupied with what they saw as an attack on their own identity. It would be similar to how a Christian would react if someone argued against the Resurrection while identifying as a Christian. We would not only reject their argument but also their label.

I found much better opportunity for dialogue by saying:

“I applaud your commitment to defending the rights of women! We share that passion. Let’s talk about the rights of ALL women, regardless of age, location, health, or wantedness.”

Eventually, I left the term “feminist” out of the discussion completely because it gave an impression I didn’t want it to give. It took too much time to explain the points of departure. It also caused others to easily lump me into a political group (including a variety of social issues) with which I didn’t necessarily agree.

So I simplified: I love all women and I oppose injustice.

LEAVING FEMINISM AGAIN

So I again left the term “feminism” behind. But not before I wrote an article in 2015 defending “Catholic feminism” and using the term publicly many times. I received much positive feedback from that article and this post is, in large part, a public correction of my own story. I am not afraid of being wrong and of changing, although it certainly can be a blow to the old ego. But…
⁣
I'm setting feminism down again.

I no longer believe that our culture can handle two competing feminisms. It’s possible, I suppose. In a perfect world. But if we lived in a perfect world, we certainly wouldn’t need feminism in any form.

The real battle is between the anti-Christian spirit of feminism and the Gospel. We cannot fight feminism if we unite to it. And it must be opposed.

The problem with having two forms of feminism is that they tend to melt and bleed into one another, complicating and confusing young and old alike with an agenda which depletes freedom. If we adopt the label, we become part of the whole movement in some way.⁣ It isn’t optional. Most people in the secular movement are not interested in nor capable of nuance. They have put themselves on autopilot for a cause and will not be deterred.

But it doesn’t really mean liberation for all. It just bands people together under an amorphous sense of justice which usually includes the killing of unborn and elevating self above others. Some feminists oppose porn and some promote it. They want protection for women but many will not oppose the horrific abuses of Islam or men taking over women’s sports. There isn’t really a unity in anything except a drum beat of defiance and anger. Sometimes it protects. Sometimes it destroys. But it only ever stands for itself.

This reality was recently illustrated perfectly in the image of a Hollywood celebrity boasting of her abortion in front of millions of people…while also pregnant with an unborn child. It is a diabolical spirit which infects us with rage, fear, and hatred. Directed at both self and others. She is clearly a victim of a demonic culture which perpetuates violence against women and children…and she is also an abuser. It is the diabolical cycle of feminism.

With Christian feminists whose passion for the dignity of all people is rightly ordered, the message of the Gospel is invariably diluted, not through intention, but by association and emphasis. I applaud the work of pro-life feminists who are engaged like warriors in the arena…but I also see how they struggle to stay rooted in their own faith, some publicly leaving Christ entirely.

They have underestimated the danger of the battle.

I used to think it might work to water down the sometimes shocking clarity of the Gospel in order to meet people where they are at. Then I actually read Scripture. There is no social justice movement more radical than the Gospel. If we water it down, it ceases to be Christian.

I briefly wrote for an organization which promoted a “new feminism” and I believed in the mission. I still have a picture of myself wearing a New Feminism t-shirt on my private Instagram page. I was all in with their truly beautiful vision. But eventually, I was told to stop including my faith in my writing. We parted ways (because I’m a little old and busy for that kind of silliness) and I had more free time to reflect. Eventually, I knew…

The message of the Gospel is sufficient. How does reducing the Gospel and highlighting feminism ever advance the healing of humanity? We can be nuanced, considerate, patient, sensitive, and prudent in our expression of faith…but we can not place it second and retain it or truly witness to Truth.

The Gospel is sufficient. And it encompasses the whole truth about who we are as individuals and how we are to be valued by others. There is no straighter path to a transformed culture. Hiding it or disguising it only confuses and delays the illumination of truth and authentic freedom. Feminism inevitably challenges us to compromise. But not in a righteous way. And I am noticing an increasing tendency among younger Catholic feminists to buy into the anger and identity politics.

Some are quite young and I know they didn’t live through the more direct assault of the post-conciliar feminism. The angry nuns were already mostly gone from their schools. The Chittisters and Schenks and Nuns on the Bus were probably not part of their adult Catholic experience in a way they understood.

When I recently saw a book by Joan Chittister on the Instagram page of a Catholic influencer (who markets herself as a spiritual teacher), I knew that it was time to speak up. Feminist spirituality is experiencing a new heyday and the generational gap of ignorance needs to be addressed.

FEMINISM CANNOT BE THE ANSWER

I’m writing now to correct my own public error. To sound a warning that this collective movement of Catholic feminism often reflects the secular in its tone, associations, and bitterness. Women are following influencers whose idea of feminism does not fully reflect the spirit of JPII but departs into a vision of defiant agenda. It’s a creeping thing but it is happening. Like an infection…some people in the body are well enough because their immune system is strong and supported, but others are being overtaken.

The ones recently who have left the Church formally and who are on the verge of leaving? All feminists. Some have left Christ entirely. Most remain in the Church, working subversively like their forebears to change the direction, not only of abuses, but also of the truth. They want their own vision of Church.

Disclaimer #2: I am not attacking individuals. I am attacking a false ideology. I am sounding an alarm so that people of good faith do not slip down a path they do not actually desire to follow. If you can retain the label of “feminist” without falling to the pitfalls of the ideology, I do not oppose you.

I don’t buy that feminism is somehow kinder, gentler, more compassionate, more welcoming, more understanding, more freeing, more compatible, more relatable than the truth of Jesus Christ. If you think those things are true, then you are either doing the Gospel wrong or have had it modeled poorly for you.

Feminism is only a political movement because of sin. Because mankind refused to live according to Christian principles and with a radical commitment to others in service and love. It was a practical response to injustice and frankly, I understand the roots. I get angry at injustice. Sometimes passionately angry. I recognize the deeply imbedded and harmful cultural patterns which impact women in the world and in the institutional Church. I am horrified at the abuse tolerated by our culture. And more deeply horrified at the SILENCE of a suffering Church in the hands of abusive and self-serving clerics.

However, feminism is not the answer, even when it wears a Catholic label.
⁣
I don't want to be any kind of feminist anymore. It confuses people. I see the kind of damage it is doing to otherwise faithful Catholic women. It sows ingratitude. It whispers that we need something more than Christ. It promises an economic and political solution to a sin problem. It tickles the ear with Marxist ideas disguised as spiritual ponderings and barely conceals its hatred of humanity.

But I know who I am...⁣
⁣
I am a woman. Made in the Imago Dei. Living the Gospel mandate to serve God and others. I am a Catholic. I try to live an integrated life in which I absolutely bring my faith to the public square and raise my voice against injustice. I will stand against that sin with my sisters who take the feminist label. But I will not again wear the label myself.

When someone thinks of me, I want them to think that I am a servant of Jesus Christ and His Church. Without competing descriptors or adjectives. And that is also how I wish to meet the Lord.

In Christ alone. I am free. I am content. Thanks be to God. ⁣

Final disclaimer: This is my story, not yours. If you think this is about you, you’re wrong. But if you want to take the ideas and struggle with them and apply them and come to your own conclusions with intelligence, openness and vigor? Have at it. That sounds like authentic Catholic womanhood to me.

Broken Catholic: My Healing Journey Through Institutional Crisis

I once went roller skating with my children and came home with a concussion. Middle age clearly hadn’t improved my ability to stay upright on a set of wheels! And when my head hit that concrete wall, life changed.

I had experienced minor head injuries in the past but this one was different. The pain, fatigue, and confusion were intense and lasted for many weeks. I lost memory and my ability to imagine the future or visualize. Simple tasks were overwhelming.

Sometimes I would wake at night not knowing where I was. I couldn’t place the room or the house, the direction I was facing…nothing. And so I would lie still in the dark, trying not to panic while I waited for my mind to connect my identity with my surroundings.

I knew who I was. I just didn’t understand how I fit in with everything else. Once I was driving again, I had the humbling experience of getting lost in my own neighborhood.

Lost in my own neighborhood, my own home, my own mind.

I have since healed but I was reminded recently of the ordeal as I stood in the middle of my kitchen processing the news of the Amazonian Synod. My head ached a little at the site of my concussion even after the passage of so much time. And I felt a familiar sinking and panicky feeling of disconnectedness…

Of knowing that I am alive and standing in a kitchen, but disconnected from what is most important to me.

“Breathe. Call on Jesus. And wait.”

That had been my formula for navigating every wave of panic during my head injury recovery. What is real? I am real. I can feel myself breathing and the floor under my feet. And Jesus is real. If all else passes away — if I never recover my mind or my context — He is real. And He reigns.

Come, Lord Jesus.

My mini crisis of finding my context within the Church faded and passed and I went about my day, reminded to breathe the name of Jesus Christ into each moment. I had been in this same place of faith crisis before and had resolved my fears in His heart. Or rather, He had drawn me in and healed me. Because of that, I knew that it would be okay. It would be more than okay.

I had been here before…

A few years ago, I hit my figurative head hard on the stone cold truth of corruption in the Church and sank deeply into the depths of loss and fear. It wasn’t just one event but several devastating blows inflicted by multiple trusted priests, an institutional failure to protect people I loved, discovering shocking corruption at the highest levels of the Church, and having my eyes opened even further to the true depth of evil present in so many areas of the Body of Christ.

It seemed that nothing was untouched by evil. The worst kinds of evil.

Well before the McCarrick scandal shook the Church, I was on my knees begging God to restore my connection with the institution. He let me fall deeply into darkness and doubt and strike my head repeatedly on the crisis of decay.

I longed for the straight-forward Jesus that my Protestant friends seemed to know and I grappled with truth, with grief, with the weakness of others, and with my own failures. I experienced an aversion to the institution. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run. I was grief-stricken and angry.

Every day as I struggled to pray, I took apart my faith and laid the nuts and bolts out to examine them. And each time I did that, I found that the Truth and Person of Jesus Christ remained. And because He remained, the Eucharist also remained…and I could not leave Him. But for a while, it was painful…

“Breathe. Call on Jesus. And wait.”

I knew that the healing of my broken heart would have to come from Christ alone and I begged Him for that consolation. I would not leave Him or His Church and yet I shuddered at the thought of a lifetime of such pain of disconnectedness and doubt.

My anger and grief were a significant stumbling block to my interior and exterior action as a Catholic. As my anger grew, I looked more deeply into my own confusion…

I had to reconcile the mess of the Church and my anger with the promises of Our Lord.

I was a wounded daughter seeking to understand the actions of an abusive “parent” - the human face of the Church - and what I found brought me clarity and kept me focused on and confident in a loving and faithful God. Instead of being submerged in the narcissistic guilt-trip inflicted by abusive prelates, I began to distinguish the voice of Christ from the wicked who took on His robe but not His heart.

I write all this down (sloppy and raw as it is) so that some might be consoled and lifted. I see many leaving the Church and also many trying to reconcile their doubt by following dissident paths within the Church. Feminism is experiencing a revival within the sanctuary of Catholic homes and parishes as women try to find their identity in a culture of abusive prelates.

There is also a slipping into the occult, into leftist social justice activism, evidence of our desire to make the Church into something that doesn’t cause pain. Something that we can control. Something that looks like some measure of order and peace. It is a creeping temptation…a way of self-pacifying…

“The Church has failed me. It is not enough. So I must make it enough. More than this embarrassing mess. Oh yes, I’m a Catholic…but not that kind, you understand. Not the embarrassing deficient kind. I’m different.”

Not every label is bad, but at our final judgement, we won’t get to keep any of those modifiers. We will be stripped of all our preferred labels, ministries, and projects and stand naked to the soul before the Person of Christ. And on earth, we will not find our peace and healing in an identity that is less than the Gospel and the fullness of the Deposit of Faith; that core of Truth which sits squarely and undiluted in the heart of the Catholic Church.

My healing came only when I looked directly at that truth and also at the pervasive corruption which has infiltrated almost every diocese, order, and structure within the institution. And it came only when I called it out and named it as the spirit of the anti-Christ.

Throughout Salvation History, that spirit of evil has walked alongside the work of the Holy Spirit. We are shocked and scandalized to see it clinging to our Church. Why? Because we have forgotten our history. We have forgotten the Scriptures…

We have forgotten that Christ let his enemy so close that it nailed Him to a tree.

Enough. Let’s look at it. And then let’s cast it out. Again and again. As many times as it comes back into our homes and parishes and even Rome…let us rise against it in righteous anger (and deeper joy), declaring the victory for Christ.

The spirit of the diabolical will not have my soul.
It will not have my children.
It will not have my husband.
It will not have my community.
It will not have my parish.
Not my priests.
Not my country.
Not my Church.

Not on my watch. Not while I have the audacity to unite myself to the living God whose bloodied image hangs in my home. If I accept the Gospel, I accept ALL of it. Including the part that says love came down and was tortured and murdered.

As I researched the corruption, my eyes were opened and, while I was horrified, I also received a great measure of confidence and peace. My prior grief was rooted in the confusing and erroneous suspicion that somehow evil had infiltrated Christ Himself. It had not. It is an enemy that can only lie and throw stones and pound nails. It cannot overtake Christ. It cannot stop Easter. And I see that the downfall of so many Catholics is that in our attempt to reconcile our faith with evil in clerical robes, we excuse that evil, ignore it, cover it, or change the story and language. We think it is healing balm but it is only a bandaid, covering the horrible truth.

In order to avoid a complete personal and communal loss of faith, we must learn how to identify what is bad and separate it from what is good. There are many faithless priests. There are many Catholics who also do not believe. Not only is it “okay” to demand that these distinctions be made, but we are obligated by the Gospel and compelled by our love of Christ to do so.

By the time the McCarrick scandal hit, I was prepared for the blow and I was not shaken in faith. I knew that he was a troubled priest and I knew that the men close to him were similarly troubled. I had faced it head on and wept and raged. I didn’t know all…but I knew enough.

Many in the Church at the time were talking about leaving Christ because of Judas. Because they were hurt. And shocked. Just like I had been hurt and shocked in the years before. But sometimes we fall or leave because we have set up our own Catholic identity as a little idol…and the edifice starts to crumble. Embarrassing. Uncomfortable. Frightening.

We are terrified that our commitment to the institution will prove us to be fools and abusers. So we defend the indefensible in order to protect our identity. We also defend out of a great desire to love, respect, and honor others whom we are bound to love.

My time of doubt and darkness lasted about two years and I did not know if it would end. I begged the Lord for healing and He answered my prayer but He also waited. He allowed me to suffer that spiritual injury and loss of connection. He stood silent (but active) while I grappled with the darkness of evil in mankind and myself. And then all at once, He lifted the heaviest part of that burden.

For those who might mistake this article as some kind of personal boast, I assure you that it is not. My suffering was not (is not) well done. Not poetic. Not admirable in any way. If it had been public, it would have scandalized many. If you knew my failings even now, you would not follow me. My only boast is that, through the grace of Jesus Christ, I begged Him not to let me go…

And He didn’t. He doesn’t.

I stood in the middle of darkness and confusion and pain and stayed connected only by speaking the truth to God, myself, and others. My desperation and inability to see and move was as real as the traumatic physical damage of my concussion. And lasted much longer.

I do not know what the future brings for me or for the Church in the short term (although I do know how it all ends). But I will tell you one thing that I hope takes you to a place of grappling… and I hope you let Jesus raise you up…

The Church is filled with wolves and jackals. They are overcome by the spirit of the anti-Christ who has existed since the fall of Lucifer and over whom Christ has the eternal victory. But the days of evil are numbered. And even if it inhabits every holy office of Rome, it sits there as an imposter.

What do we do when bad men sit in positions of power in the Church? Stand fast. We are not leaving. If they keep the robes of Christ but deny Him with their teachings, then they have placed themselves and many others in eternal peril.

But let it not be us…

Stand fast.
Do not lose hope.
Cling to Christ.

The Church is not a nation. It cannot be overthrown. Even if it has to live in the catacombs of our homes and hearts while corrupt men grow fat on the goodness of the faithful…

Stand fast. Breathe. Call on Jesus. Wait.

---

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

Catholics and the Medical Medium: Channeling, Celery Juice, and the Wrong Way to Heal

Should Catholics read and follow the advice of the popular internet wellness guru, the Medical Medium? Let me ask it another way…

Should Catholics read and follow the advice of someone who channels spirits to gain knowledge about healing?

No. The obvious answer to both is a resounding no. Both Scripture and Church teaching condemn the practice and make it clear that involvement with such practices poses an immediate danger to the soul. There is no gray area here… it’s a huge no.

I assumed that this would be self-evident for most Catholics, but as more time passes (and more people recommend that I drink celery juice), I see that the influence of Anthony William (aka Medical Medium) has taken root even among the faithful. Let me be clear… I think it’s fine if you drink celery juice (although there are downsides to drinking too much) and I do believe that EBV is responsible for some health problems (though not all), but I challenge the notion that information gained through spirit channeling is consistent with practice of Christianity.

It is my hope that the information in this post can help those who haven’t yet made the connection between William’s spiritual practices and his advice. Many truly don’t know who he is and what he does. Others don’t know their faith.

Here are the things you need to know:

MEDICAL MEDIUM CHANNELS A SPIRIT TO GAIN KNOWLEDGE

I’m not making this up, guessing, or inferring. I’m going on the exact words of Anthony William, whose name was made popular by Hollywood celebrities who fawn over him and his spirit friend/guide. In the words of singer-songwriter Debbie Gibson:

“Anthony William is the real deal, and the gravity of the information he shares through Spirit is priceless and empowering and much needed in this day and age!”

In case you’re wondering who “Spirit” is… Spirit is the being that Anthony William channels for knowledge and who has been with him since the age of four. “Spirit” is shorthand for “Spirit of the Most High.” Anthony William describes this being’s relationship to his work on his Facebook page this way:

”Anthony William Medical Medium is given information about his clients from a source that has identified itself since his early childhood as the ones from the Most High, connecting him with powerful spiritual wisdom. Spirit of the Most High holds a wisdom and clarity that is closest to the Holy Source. Anthony describes this as “an ancient brother- and sisterhood of the most devoted saints, prophets, and other admired ones of the Holy Source.”

“This is in direct contrast to the more common spirits that reside underneath the Holy source, which Spirit calls the Sea of Confusion. Spirit has compassion, sympathy, and empathy that will surpass any human being and any other spirit underneath them. This form of compassion is the strength behind their direction and will never lead to misguidance or destruction. Spirit understands pain and suffering and becomes a complete source of healing energy in the face of suffering. They understand when one loses faith, hope, or love for one’s self due to illness or disease.”

“The Spirit works day and night with Anthony to help provide his clients with as much information and guidance to aid in their healing process. Anthony William holds a love and devotion for his clients, which opens their ability to receive the information from the Holy Source and to heal. Healing becomes a reality for all, facilitated by this wisdom.”

That description should be enough to alarm any Catholic who knows the faith and believes it. He clearly states that the healing of his clients comes directly through channeling.

---

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

Here are excerpts from his book “Medical Medium”:

“My story begins when I’m four years old. 
As I’m waking up one Sunday morning, I hear an elderly man speaking. 
His voice is just outside my right ear. It’s very clear. 
He says, “I am the Spirit of the Most High. There is no spirit above me but God.” 

Right from the start, we see red flags of of the demonic. He goes on to talk more about this strange visitor…

“In the evening I settle into my chair at the dinner table. With me are my parents, my grandparents, and some other family members. As we’re eating, I suddenly see a strange man standing behind my grandmother. He has gray hair and a gray beard, and is wearing a brown robe. I assume he’s a family friend who’s come to join our meal. Instead of sitting down with us, though, he keeps standing behind my grandmother . . . and looking only at me.”

And then comes the first time that William is given direct knowledge from the spirit…

“He takes my hand and puts it on my grandmother’s chest while she’s eating. 
Grandma backs away with a start. “What are you doing?” she asks. 
The gray man looks at me. “Say ‘lung cancer.’” 
I’m at a loss. I don’t even know what lung cancer means. 
I try to say it, but it comes out as a mumble. 
“Do it again,” he tells me. “Lung.” 
“Lung,” I say. 
“Cancer.” 
“Cancer,” I say. 
My entire family is staring at me now. 
I’m still focused on the gray man. 
”Now say, ‘Grandma has lung cancer.’” 
“Grandma has lung cancer,” I say….”

I have met many Catholics (specifically women) who don’t find this section alarming. Some are just skimming. Some have been influenced by the culture’s theologically loose way of discussing angels. I also believe (and have unfortunately experienced) that when dealing with manifestations of the demonic, our spiritual vision is easily obscured. Evil confuses all senses.

Could this be an angel of God? Possibly. But the entire context suggests not. It has all the hallmarks of the demonic and lacks a Christian context.

Can a four-year old be vulnerable to spiritual attack? Yes. It’s difficult to reconcile the innocence of childhood with such a thing, but adults have the darnedest habit of making spiritually unsafe circumstances for children. I don’t know what his upbringing was like but clearly he was exposed to something at home or elsewhere at a very young age.

---

THE COMMITMENT (SELLING HIS SOUL)

As alarming as the introduction to this spirit is, William’s adult devotion and commitment to it is much more so. He tells the story in his book about how he consciously promised obedience to this being in exchange for saving his life. This happened when Williams was attempting to rescue his dog from a river and found himself in danger of drowning.

“Spirit says, “You’ve done it now. You cannot turn back, and you cannot go forward. This is it.” 

“Really? You rob me of a normal, peaceful life, I dedicate my whole being to your work of healing, and this is all I get from you? You say, ‘This is it,’ and leave us to die?”

All the angst and anger I’ve suppressed since I was four years old comes pouring out. I let Spirit have it about my years of pent-up frustration over this continual torture I’ve always had to accept as a “gift”: being set apart from everyone else, knowing too much about everyone at way too early an age, and being told what I had to do with my life instead of given even the slightest choice. 

I tell Spirit, “I put up with a lot — sacrificing my childhood, experiencing everybody’s pain and suffering, taking responsibility for healing thousands of strangers, and draining myself physically and mentally every day. And now you’re telling me I can’t even protect my own family?”

As the danger to his life increases, William is given an offer by the spirit…

“Spirit says, “I will get you to your dog. In return, you must commit to me. We go through this life the way we’re supposed to. You accept that it is by the holy power of God you are destined to do this work for the rest of your life.” 

“Okay!” I shout. “Deal. Let me find August, and I’ll work for you with no complaints ever again.”

You must commit to me. This is not the language of the angels. This is the language of the demonic. But William has been connected to this spirit his entire life and now he consciously gives his life over to it. It not only gives him the power to save his dog and his own life, but becomes the impetus for his work as the Medical Medium.

“Even before this point, people in need have been coming to me in droves.

With this pledge, I wholly dedicate myself to helping them, without qualification and for the rest of my life.

I don’t have to pretend the abilities I’ve been granted are a problem-free blessing. Yet I stop complaining and finally accept who I am. That’s when I truly assume my role as the Medical Medium…”

---

William complains against the spirit and is angry about the oppressiveness of this spiritual presence in his life. This is relevant because psychics, mediums, clairvoyants, etc. often eventually experience a lack of peace, often to a degree which robs sleep and mental health. William’s words echo those of many who have found themselves in a kind of bondage to their spiritual “friends”… the same companions who are ultimately revealed as powerful oppressors.

---

THE CHRISTIAN PERSPECTIVE

I assume that if you are reading this article, you are a mature, intelligent, faithful Catholic and that you know that you are free to discern and pick out the good amongst much junk in the world of natural wellness. In the case of the Medical Medium however, there are specific reasons why you should always seek out other resources. You don’t need this man (and his spirit being) to tell you to eat vegetables and seek the root cause of your illness. He offers nothing that isn’t available elsewhere. Even if he did have something unique to offer, I would still say… stay away. The spiritual danger is not a good exchange for a healthy body.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church states:

2116 All forms of divination are to be rejected: recourse to Satan or demons, conjuring up the dead or other practices falsely supposed to “unveil” the future. Consulting horoscopes, astrology, palm reading, interpretation of omens and lots, the phenomena of clairvoyance, and recourse to mediums all conceal a desire for power over time, history, and, in the last analysis, other human beings, as well as a wish to conciliate hidden powers. They contradict the honor, respect, and loving fear that we owe to God alone.

The work of the Medical Medium falls clearly under that admonition.

2117:  All practices of magic or sorcery, by which one attempts to tame occult powers, so as to place them at one’s service and have a supernatural power over others – even if this were for the sake of restoring their health – are gravely contrary to the virtue of religion. 

Scripture is also clear:

"Let there not be found among you anyone who immolates his son or daughter in the fire, nor a fortune-teller or soothsayer, charmer, diviner or caster of spells, nor one who consults ghosts and spirits or seeks oracles from the dead. Anyone who does such things is an abomination to the Lord." (Deut 18:10-12)

“Now the works of the flesh are plain: immorality, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness, dissension, party spirit, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and the like. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.” (Galations 5:19)

In the book of Acts, we see that the sorcerer named Simon was widely respected, but he heard the Gospel preached by Philip, was baptized, and abandoned his old life to follow Christ.

We know that, not only does the enemy prowl around like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour, but he also disguises himself as an angel of light. (1 Pt 5:8, 2 Cor 11:14) No one would follow this guy if he wasn’t offering some kind of good. “Be alert and of sober mind.”

The demonic can sometimes heal the body. The demonic can appear as your greatest desire. It is in these times that we must know our faith, believe in the Word of God, and throw ourselves on His truth and mercy.

---

THE DANGER

Most Catholics do stop following William after they learn about the source of his work. They simple didn’t know and then corrected their direction once they learned. Though I know that many will read this article and wash their hands of him forever, there are also a good number of people who continue to follow him after knowing everything. I have found that they tend to have one or more of the following obstacles:

1. They don’t have a healthy fear of the demonic. They still think about demons as cartoon characters instead of a spiritual realities and have never experienced any exposed manifestation of evil and felt the accompanying terror. They do not believe they are vulnerable and they are lulled into a false sense of security.

2. They are poorly catechized and don’t have a proper understanding of the spiritual battle that is real and ongoing in the life inside and outside the soul. They think they are on solid footing and are not prepared to recognize the enemy even when it appears plainly before them.

3. They are deeply involved in and impacted by risky spiritual practices like yoga, non-Christian meditation, tarot, or reiki. This results in defensiveness, confusion, and spiritual blindness.

4. They have experienced healing and positive fruits from following William and either cannot reconcile that positive experience with the idea of danger… or they simply don’t want to give it up.

The truth is that the demonic does not look at you and me and say “Oh hey… you look like a good Christian… so I’m just going to just move on to someone a little less in love with Jesus.” The prowling enemy targets those who love the Lord and desires our spiritual and physical destruction. He wants us to be fooled into leaving Christ, and then he wants us to die isolated from Him, in terror and pain. He hates us more than we can imagine hating anyone.

---

THE SOLUTION

The answer to this problem is to leave Anthony William behind and pursue a healing lifestyle based on God’s design for our bodies, minds, and souls. We must be willing to sacrifice even our health to follow God’s will… but I don’t think you have to in this case. Eat lots of veggies and juice a bunch if you want! Definitely see a functional medicine doctor and find your underlying causes like lyme, SIBO, chemical poisoning, etc… and yes, even EBV…

But don’t do it because a spirit told you through a pop star medium.

My own background includes involvement in non-Christian spiritual healing. The spirit of the demonic tried to destroy me and almost succeeded. It was a terrifying, oppressive time in my life and I almost succumbed to the complete despair and torment. There is a range of demonic influence that can impact a person’s life. There are people with mild oppression who can walk courageously through with strong faith and commitment to prayer and virtue. And then there are heavier things. Much heavier. All are crosses which threaten our security in Christ because they confuse, obscure, and can lead incrementally down a hellish path.

From my place of experience, I will share that, after my initial research, I will not even go to the Medical Medium website to poke around. I do not want any part of my life influenced by the demonic. I do not want to read its words, see its images, or listen to its mouthpieces. It is a defensive move but also strategically offensive…

I belong to Jesus Christ alone and will not make myself vulnerable to His enemies. I already know I am not strong enough. He is Lord and I submit my whole life to him. My mind, my soul, my body. Since he is my strength, I have to give my senses and intellect solely to Him so that He can lead me in battle.

I will not go to the mat with God over celery juice.

It’s not that simple, I know. And yet… it is. It is a million little and big choices in life that form us into who we wish to be and strengthen us into saints capable of white or red martyrdom. It is the little and big choices in life that lead us slowly, almost imperceptibly, to a place where we can no longer recognize the signs of Jesus Christ… or the red flags of the enemy.

If you still cling to Medical Medium after reading all of this evidence, just know that you are clinging also to his spirit buddy. You can no longer say that you don’t know.

How to Forgive Anyone

When you look at me, who do you see? Do you see the woman God made me to be or the broken sinner bent on thwarting His beautiful plan?

When you look at me, what do you feel? Do you feel gratitude for how He has worked in my life? Or do you feel the pain that I have caused you with my words and actions?

Does it have to be one or the other? Can we see both... looking through the scars and woundedness to a place of innocence and joy?

You see me as I am now. As I present myself to you. As I hurt you or comfort you, show my face or hide my heart. But do you see me as I was meant to be? And will you call me forth to come into my own?

If you struggle with forgiveness, I can offer you a way to find it... an opportunity to uncover that place in your heart that can't fight mercy. It's a little exercise. I can't promise it will work. I can promise you that God will work... even if you can't feel it yet...

We don’t necessarily feel forgiveness - we choose it - and yet our emotional memory is often firmly linked to our choice. If it wasn’t… perhaps we could forgive anyone.

Sometimes the body needs to make the first step to lead the soul in that same way we genuflect toward the tabernacle even when our heart and head are not in it. Our actions, done as an act of faith, help return us to a place of belief. So…

Find a photograph of the one you wish to forgive. Not just any photograph but a very early one... or maybe two or three if you can manage. One of infancy, another of toddlerhood, perhaps another at about 3 or 4 years of age. Baptismal photos are good or of being held in the mother's arms. If you do not have an actual picture, imagine a small child. If you do not think in images, find a picture of an unknown infant and imagine that the child in the photo is the one you are trying to see.

Now close your eyes and pray. Beg the Lord to help you SEE. Beg Him to help you have COMPASSION. And MERCY. Ask the Holy Spirit to flood your mind and soul and vision... that you  may only see now through God's eyes. And that you may be able to forgive.

Open your eyes and examine the pictures before you. Imagine holding that infant. Look into the eyes of the child and see the innocence and the beautiful plan that God intended. Think like a mother. Think of all of the hopes and dreams that you would have for such a little person. See the little one smiling up to you and reaching. See baby fall... and the tears... and running to dry them and kiss them away.

God's baby. God's little one. At this moment, that little heart is in your hands. Now, even if you don't feel it, Say out loud:

“You are His beautiful child and I forgive you for His sake.” 

I have done this a few times. All times but one it was an accidental (providential) moment. Once, I was sent a childhood photograph by a person who had hurt me. Perhaps she knew me well enough to know the effect it would have. It was her First Holy Communion portrait and her eyes were shining with a beautiful innocent joy. I could SEE her for the first time and all bitterness left my heart. Forgiveness does not always mean reconciliation but it is still necessary. The brokenness and division might remain but I cannot see the radiant face of God's little girl and withhold my forgiveness. The image from that photograph has not left me.

I found a picture of my own childhood one day and really looked for the first time. And I wept at what I saw because I saw what I thought was lost. Then I knew that God still sees and loves and forgives His little girl. He always has the face of my innocence before Him.

We ought to do this for each other. We should continually see each other through the Father's eyes and recall each other to our purpose... to the image in which we were made. We should practice seeing what may be hidden and calling out to the little soul in hiding.

Mother Teresa of Calcutta habitually saw our Lord in every person. I am not so good as that. The mother in me sometimes needs to start with a baby picture.

Originally posted in 2011

How to be Happy When You Don't Feel Christmas

My husband’s relationship with donuts has taught me so much about happiness at Christmas. Hang with me for a minute…

You see, he is a bit of an anomaly when it comes to weight loss. He’s never been overweight and is always within 15 pounds of his ideal, depending on desire and need. Since it is volleyball season for him and being a few pounds lighter helps his vertical and eases the stress on his (aging) joints, he decided to lose a few pounds. And he did.

He cut out some unnecessary calories, put in a couple extra workouts, and lost a few pounds. Just like that. I marvel at the ease with which he does that. There’s no emotion. He doesn’t hand-wring over the donut on the counter that he can’t have or the craving for a late night snack. He just acknowledges the pang and moves on.

Hello donut. Looking good. Have a nice day.

Totally detached. He doesn’t emotionalize the thing but just does it, while the rest of us are in the death grip of the drama of guilt, failure, regret, and all the wild highs and lows of… donuts.

Christmas emotion is like my special donut in that way. I crave it, reach for it, can’t have it, and fret over it endlessly and fruitlessly. I have convinced myself that I have a right to it and have incorrectly identified emotional satisfaction with joy.

I want my happy Christmas. I want it big. I want it now.

Over some difficult terrain of my young mothering years, I came to associate Christmas with certain negative emotions as I battled through difficult pregnancies and chronic health conditions. As things got tougher, Advent and Christmas became a source of physical and emotional pain…

“Dear Jesus… I do not know how I am going to survive this. I hurt everywhere from my toes to my soul. I can barely think. I can barely move. My children are waiting expectantly for joy to come… and I’m kind of in charge of facilitating that. I am a failure. And I have been left out.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it” is the ultimate practical survival tool in these moments. It works. But it costs something, too. The struggle of forcing my way through so many Christmases of pain pushed me into numbness necessary for survival. Each time I opened the door to my emotions, I was overwhelmed with pain and grief and so… I reflexively shut the door.

I will never forget the first year that numbness took over the holy days. I was used to pain but that nothingness was even more alarming to me. For the first time, I felt nothing at the beautiful Midnight Mass. Nothing in the morning. Not depression.... just a protective covering and fog over everything.

A new wave grief swept over that emptiness… Like a lost childhood. Like waking up from a lovely dream and finding darkness. Like learning that most earthly Christmas delights are the ones that you are too tired to prepare. This is Christmas? This is Christmas.

And so began a very late education in what Christmas is really about even though every middle class Christian knows that “Jesus is the reason for the season.” We think we know... because we can afford to purchase our endorphin rush with all the smells and bells and giving. We think we know… because we bought the bumper sticker. We think we know… because we helped set up the decorations at church and had Father over for dinner. But when the consolation of our own glittery preparations is gone, we fall hard and learn fast that we don’t really possess the peace of Christmas at all…

Because our attachment to the emotion of our celebration is stronger than our attachment to Christ. We have prepared the meal but have neglected the relationship.

This is especially true for Christians. We expect more from Christmas because we feel entitled to the emotions… it belongs to us. We want to uncover the glory and swim in it, celebrate it, share it. We grieve deeply when we cannot feel those things or when we feel the “wrong” emotions like sadness or loneliness.

I am not suggesting that emotions are bad, only that they easily become a god when we seek them instead of true encounter with Christ. Dr. Alice von Hildebrand writes about emotional sensitivities this way:

“Hypersensitivity becomes an illegitimate source of suffering when it is self-centered;… a sensitive heart is given to us to feel for others, and to love them more deeply and more tenderly. But since original sin, it tends to degenerate into a maudlin self-centeredness that is not only disastrous but also causes great pain for the sensitive person.”

My own pain pushed me into a self-centered shell. But as I moved past the alarm of the absence of feeling Christmas (except a vague sad ache), the intellectual fog began to clear, the grace of the sacraments acted, and I reawakened to the simple, undecorated truths of Christmas. I was not blinded by my emotions because I had few to grapple with. I was forced to look my disappointment in the eye and admit:

You’ve got it wrong. You’ve always had it wrong. You’ve been crying over the donut.

Then an incredible thing happened…

As I moved through the motions of Christmas, unfettered by the ups and downs of my complicated emotional chemistry, I found the steady hand of Jesus Christ walking me through the middle of the highs and lows. I looked to the right and saw the heights of Christmas cheer; the parties, the wrapping paper, the lights. I looked to the left and saw the deep valley of fatigue, disappointment, failure, and pain.

My own feet were on a narrow path right in the middle guided by the hand of Christ. I was given the grace to view the highs and lows with a third party objectivity… like my husband looks at a donut. The hand of Jesus felt like the weight of a million stars. Steady. Deeper than emotion. Beyond pain. Beyond consolation.

I acknowledge that am an emotionally sensitive person and I have allowed that gift to become a stumbling block to Christ. The grace to see that truth plainly was a healing gift that hasn’t made me perfect but has allowed me to grow a little.

As Christmas approaches, I am reminded once again that I must not worship Christmas and emotional consolation… but Christ alone.

Having an emotionally healthy Christmas is about engaging in a real relationship with Christ and allowing feelings to exist without allowing them to control our understanding of the truth. If you feel the emotional joy, welcome it but do not cling to it. If you feel a depression, don’t panic but walk with it calmly until it passes. Do not cling to it. Sometimes we don’t realize how strongly we cling to our sorrows and encourage our own melancholy.

The emotional Christmas donut simply has no legitimate authority over our relationship with Jesus Christ. The goal is not to restore emotion or eradicate it, but to put it in its proper place, subservient to authentic relational love.

If you struggle with emotions at this time of year, I encourage you to take half an hour and watch (or rewatch) the original Dr. Seuss version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. It is the one of the simplest modern depictions of an emotionally healthy Christmas.

At the climax of the story, morning comes and the viewer knows that the residents of Whoville are awake. We know, without seeing, that they have found their trees and presents gone, their feasts missing, their decorations torn away. They don’t know who did it and they don’t know why.

The lights go on, a couple seconds pass, and then... the singing begins... 

They gather with smiles in a circle in the center of town and immediately begin to worship. At least that’s what I see them doing. The bright star appears before them and rises with their song and rejoicing. They didn’t have to be worked up into joy… they simply never lost it to begin with. (Watch the clip HERE)

They knew that someone took their “donut” and perhaps they felt the sting of disappointment; but they didn’t allowed it to disrupt their relationship with the Heart of Christmas, who we know to be Jesus Christ.

Then - without any explanation given to him or drawn out drama - the grinch was immediately transformed. It was an almost ridiculously fast conversion. Cartoonish in its speed but also representative of the power, not of Christmas, but of the very Presence of God. That conversion is exactly what we spend all Advent (and our lives) seeking and which can certainly be accomplished in a moment when in the Presence of Divine Love.

I love this movie because it shows me how reflexively we are called to give all. In a moment. To choose love now and forever.

My own Christmas experiences have matured a little over the years. One result of my forced period of detachment has been a steady reconnection with a gentler emotional happiness. Since I am not as easily rocked by the raging emotional sea, I am more free to embrace the milder, deeper path. I don’t generally feel Christmas euphoria but neither do I usually experience a true depression. I’ve settled in with gratitude for every consolation and a more measured response to disappointment.

I don’t write this because I am spiritually advanced (I assure you that I am not and my loved ones can confirm!) but as someone who has been through (and am still going through) the school of Christmas hard knocks. In other words, I’m getting older and inevitably experiencing more... and I just want you to know...

Don’t fret over the donut. God has bigger plans for your happiness. In fact, He is the plan. He is your happiness. Rejoice!

Breaking and Healing the Hearts of Our Children

It is an insomnia season. A season when all the elements converge and conspire against the coveted commodity called sleep... deep sleep. And in spite of my fondness for Instagram, I  lay tonight's struggle partially at the feet of that glorious time sucker. (As a friend wisely said, I wouldn't have the extra worries if I didn't go seeking them out on social media!) I met a mom there recently whose struggle looked a lot like mine and when she shared a little piece of her grief, my own heart broke. So here I am... awake. 

The grieving woman on Instagram wanted to know if we moms can entertain a reasonable hope of repairing the damage we do to our households over the years. Tell me we can! she begged. Tell me we can go back and reverse what we have done!  

I whispered a tiny and sad no inside my head and in the following seconds, my racing mind was flooded with a torrent of memories; all personal failures I have owned in the last 21 years of motherhood. Some of them stick to me like fly paper and the guilt is so heavy that if I dwell too long, I go down, down, down into the ugly deep. But I didn't dwell this time, I simply let the projector reel of time run out as I held my breath, as if riding out a labor pain. I answered on Instagram then... and I answer now as I lie awake, preoccupied with the gravity of this question...

No. You can't go back. You can't repair all the damage. The hope lies in the possibility of renewal, repentance, and healing - but the scars will probably stay. Some will stay for a little while and some for a lifetime, heedless of our grief and the gripping, aching guilt of regret.

The children forget our mistakes when they are 12 months old but it doesn't take long before the memories stick. They are formed under our love.... and our sin. My first two children have entered adulthood and I know that when they walk out the front door, they take all the hidden heart wounds with them. Perhaps they’ll over spend the rest of his life healing from and forgiving me the consequences of my sins...

My laziness.
My impatience.
My lack of charity.
My selfishness.
My willful ignorance.
All of those things which fall into those categories in big and small ways.

Countless hours of my motherhood have been spent lying awake, grieving over my words and actions and raising my fist against the injustice of the human condition… 

Why must it be that we are destined to leave these marks on the souls of our children when it is our deepest desire to raise them to be whole and healthy and happy? 

There simply is no answer apart from The Fall and The Cross. Jesus is the Savior. And I am not He. In our journey toward sanctity, we eventually realize that either He will be the answer to the heartache of our homes... or no one will. 

For years, I spent much of my motherly frustration on those outside of my home who hurt my children, dwelling on the difficulty of free will. Why, Lord, do You allow people to choose evil? To choose sin? To hurt my children? And then... the day came when raised my hands and yelled: 

WHY? Why, Lord, have You allowed ME to wound?  

I love my large family and take tremendous delight in watching it grow and thrive; however, the process of sanctification in this vocation can be intense. And perhaps that's putting it mildly. The walls that used to get washed... don't.

The attention I used to have for one... I must somehow divide by seven.

The virtues I thought would blossom in my life... have proven to be remarkably weak under pressure.

My plans for holiness and household peace and perfect... skuttled by the reality of human will.

We love and we wound. They adore us and then feel our weakness pierce their hearts. We make them the center of our vocation, and then they remind us that they are not meant to be bent and molded and pressed... but to be mentored and to fly. In my imagination, I saw that I would become better and more competent over time. I never would have believed that I would feel that the opposite was happening.

Motherhood will not be planned. Children will not be controlled. And against every prayer and supplication, God will always allow more struggle than the person can handle. Would we ever turn to Him if He didn't?

For years, I thought it was just me. I thought that I was the lone failure among my friends and my community. I knew others were struggling, but in my self-centered anxiety, I thought that I must be at the bottom of the barrel of incompetent mothers.

Over the years, this belief (coupled with a heavy dose of postpartum hormonal imbalances) brought a period of depression which led into a lingering sorrow and a companion anger that comes with a feeling of cosmic injustice…

If large families are a blessing, then WHY am I suffering under the burden of my inadequacy? If this is the right equation, then I must be the wrong answer. Why would God allow my beautiful children to be placed in the care of such a weak, wounded, and ridiculous mother? 

I couldn't find an answer because I did not understand that His perfection only comes in our weakness. In the cloud of my monumental pride, the grace of God was obscured. All that was visible to me was my failure.

This harsh and deep sorrow softened over time and was eventually companioned by a deep and strengthening faith. I acknowledged my constant failure and recognized that I would always fail. I read adult versions of the lives of the saints and recognized their humanity; their allergies, their tempers, their errors, their conflicts. I began to know them a little better and to forgive in myself what I had previously seen as unforgivable.

At the beginning of my motherhood, I grew in confidence as I led my little army. That great confidence faded as I saw my failures mirrored to me in the lives of my growing kids. My pride lay stretched out and broken on the living room rug every single day. There didn't seem to be a way out of that. Mary, Mother of Sorrows became an ally for the first time. And the Cross of motherhood, once a lovely but distant mystery, became nestled deeply in my heart. My greatest consolation was the abiding love of God. He made Himself very present to me, even as my broken heart bled out into every area of my life.

Why did He allow this kind of stripping of soul? Perhaps because once I knew that I was absolutely nothing without Him, I might finally learn how to pray and truly seek Him.  

The grace of God began to rain down upon me and carried me through what I have privately referred to as my adult childhood. I had to learn how to walk again and to relearn what it meant to be alive as a child of God. Formerly, I thought that faith would make me a shiny flawless saint, like the drawings in my children's picture books. The hard lesson was that the pursuit of perfection did not mean that I could be perfect in myself, but only by allowing Christ to fill my soul entirely. The Refiner's Fire was consuming me. Terrifically painful (and ongoing)... but still a place of Life and unparalleled joy. 

How was I to grow in sanctity and perfection? How was I to learn to stand up straight and tall in the midst of my failures? It really boils down to the annihilation of my pride and the pursuit of only one vision: God's.

I am now in a stage I can only refer to as the fighting stage. I see that I am overwhelmed by losses to my own sinful nature, my kids' free will, and the many obligations of life that I do not feel equipped to meet. And yet... I know that I am fighting for souls. I used to want to build the perfect Catholic dominion... and now I am fighting for each step against many enemies and odds, to simply love all my people into heaven.

I do not count the wins as a general would, I tend the soldiers and the wounded, regardless of whether the battle being waged is won or lost. The larger battle will never be mine to fight. My battle is love and love alone.

We were made for greatness. We were made for everything good He ordains for us, be that with a short obscure life or a lengthy stay in the midst of a large community. My fiat is not my yes to success... it is my yes to faithful obedience and an act of faith with the promise of joy. My failures are like stepping stones to grace. Each time I fall, He lifts me up higher than I could have gone without Him. And if I get to heaven at all, it will be because I have simply let Him carry me the whole way. 

This vocation... It doesn't look at all like I thought it would. The sorrow is still there. The crosses seem to multiply at times. The stakes are higher. It used to be about simply keeping the children alive and clean each day and now it's about their immortal souls. It is hard in a startling way and perhaps that is why God gives us the easy stuff first. Pregnancy, labor, and bloody breastfeeding ain’t got nothin' on teenage/young adult growing and stretching pains and the realization that I've screwed up more small and big things than I can count. My pride has been sorely touched by this new stage in motherhood. 

Eventually, all of the days of humiliation and dying give way to days of rising. You will fall hard. And your children will fall hard. It is on those days that you will know without question where your true priorities lie. You will drop everything and run to tend to their skinned knees and hearts (and sometimes even harder, clean up after the wounds they have inflicted on others) and you will question everything that you do and why you do it. 

Our tendency is to run, fast and hard, away from that pain and discomfort and our culture does this with a will. As Christians, we feel the struggle coming on and are tempted to turn and start running with everyone else. It makes sense…

Leave it, medicate it, drink it away, distract, cover, deny, pretend, and shout it down. But we... those moms who know the heart and hurt is all for Christ... we stop mid stream and do an intentional turning. We see our crosses waiting behind us and we turn and take them up with love. 

I'm not going to leave.
I'm never going to leave.
I give myself in love for you.
I will work until I'm old and gray (and beyond) for you.
My talents are yours.
My treasure is yours. 
My time is yours.
My cheerful, joyful, sunny days are yours.

But my anger, resentfulness, selfishness, and crankiness? Those are mine. And I leave them at the foot of the Cross for Jesus to sweep away. Because His name is Mercy.

To the beautiful Instagram lady who came face to face with her priorities, I just want to let you know that it is a day for rejoicing. God has chosen to gift you with holy vision. And now? He will give you the grace to press on. Thanks be to God.

Halloween {A Failed Catechesis on Holy Death}

 There are several reasons why I do not celebrate Halloween -- the most superficial being that we dress up for All Saints' Day and ain't nobody got time to make two costumes each for 7 kids! Aside from that, secular Halloween practices often run contrary to a life of virtue and hope -- and even a benign costume and candy celebration on October 31st tends to undermine the greatness of the feasts of All Saints' and All Souls'. But I'm not going to focus on those today...
 

Today I'm going to write about death. And why secular Halloween teaches the wrong thing about the most important thing.
 

I've had death on the brain lately. I spent the last half year immersed in the subject of dying (specifically miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss) as part of my bereavement doula certification process. I don't love the thought of death but I found my studies fascinating. It brought mortality very close to my daily life was a spiritual shot in the arm. I thought more than usual about the fragility of life and the state of my soul. I also learned more about what grief does to the survivors. One consequence was that I became convicted that understanding of and care during the time of death is a fundamental element to building a Culture of Life.
 

How does this relate to Halloween? 
 

It didn't at first... until I began my training course in psychological first aid. I was in the middle of a module about caring for survivors of trauma, specifically children who have learned (suddenly) about the death of a loved one. The recommended approach was determined by the age of the child. The youngest ones would presumably have little experience with death and a vague or non-existent understanding of what death means. But it was the description of the next group that stuck with me. These kids were a little older and mature enough to know what it means to die but still too young to have much experience. The material described the primary obstacle to communicating with this age group: Their understanding of death was generally limited to the known skeletons and monsters of Halloween. As a result, the primary response to death was one of ignorance and fear.
 

Most people fear death to some degree. That's not the issue. What struck me as noteworthy in this case was that this secular disaster relief organization recognized the cultural practices of Halloween as an inhibitor to a child's healthy understanding of death. The reality in a faith context is that our American version of Halloween is terrible catechesis. In fact, I would call it anti-catechesis for providing the wrong answer to life's most important questions. 
 

Such an attitude is typically modern American. We rush through grief. We sweep it under the rug. And we run from age and pain and death with a frantic passion. Halloween practices can encourage this dysfunction by contributing to confusion and ignorance of something that, when rightly ordered and supported, is actually our greatest moment of grace on earth. 
 

I use the term "secular" Halloween practices but what are Catholic Halloween practices? They aren't defined by the Church. We do know that All Hallow's Eve (the Eve of All Saints'), is the vigil of one of the greatest feasts of the liturgical year. Feast day vigil masses are celebrated at this time. The day after All Saints' is All Souls' Day - the day that Catholics traditionally focus on the dead. So what role does the Eve of All Saints' (Hallow'een) technically have? Truly? Not much.

The celebration of Halloween has become a mammoth secular creature of our own making with the average American spending almost $80 on costumes alone. In an effort to "baptize" our cultural practices, some have made the vigil into something of a Catholic cultural festival centered around the topics of death and fear. Nothing wrong with a good party and some treats! But that’s not our primary concern here.
 

"Consult not your fears but your hopes and dreams" ~ Pope St. John XXIII
 

How does our cultural Halloween fail us?  The psychological first aid training drew attention to the problem: We teach our children that death is something creepy to be mocked, to be looked at as a piece of fun darkness. As a consequence, that darkness becomes the primary lens through which our children see death.

Many bereavement professionals will tell you that the American cultural approach to death is unhealthy. As Christians, this is a matter of grave consequence. We fool ourselves into thinking that the deepest parts of our human nature can be trivialized without spiritual consequences. Truly, a good death is the one thing that every soul should long for. This is why the saints entered their death scene with joy and hope. This is why we celebrate their feast days on the memorial of their deaths. For the saints, the day of death is a day of rejoicing.
 

"Death is nothing else but going home to God, the bond of love will be unbroken for all eternity." ~ Mother Teresa of Calcutta
 

Am I suggesting that we can never be "real" about scary things? Absolutely not. Am I suggesting that we can never jump out from behind a door to scare someone? Or put that horrible rubber rat in the pizza box to wait for a victim? No. What I am postulating is that the cultural secular Halloween is not a healthy context in which to explore the subject of death. We do not need to enter into sin to overcome sin. We do not need to don a mask of evil (especially in a superficial plastic costume way) in order to rise with Christ to new life. Jesus has won the victory through the Cross, and consequently, the Cross is beautiful to us. But only because the sacrificial act of Love is beautiful... not because we love or glorify the horror of the crucifixion. 
 

With our renewed understanding of the gift of the body through John Paul II's Theology of the Body, it is a wonder that we still tolerate the gruesome depictions of the flesh on Halloween night. Personhood is lost. Morphed into a mass of bleeding flesh and parade of hideous creatures. If we could put a true face on our sinfulness, perhaps this is what we would see. But the Truth, Christ Himself, is also within us, and demands sacred respect. 
 

St. John Bosco once called the Christian cemetery "an eloquent sign for those who enter in faith and prayer." Not creepy or frightening but "an eloquent sign." How beautiful! Unfortunately, it seems to be the human condition (concupiscence) to make ugly what God has made beautiful and to lose sensitivity to the joy of the eternal. 
 

Shall we mock death? Shall we mock our own moment of grace? The best way to "mock death' is to live so fully alive in Christ that fear is annihilated. To immerse oneself in the Word of God that promises that death brings peace to the pure soul. To enter into the fullness of Sacramental life so that life is a shower of grace. And then to step out, full of the power of the Holy Spirit, to serve the needs of the suffering. 
 

Mother Teresa did not throw a Halloween party to "mock death". She walked the streets of Calcutta and saw it in the eyes of the people and saw Christ Himself there. She picked up the abandoned, dying people of God whose wounds festered and were sometimes infested with maggots. She touched faces of pain and kissed the sores there. Was she too grave and rigid? Or shall we learn the lesson of her life as living catechesis. In light of her example and the model of all the saints, the modern Halloween custom becomes a mockery of true Love, which is the only worthy goal. 
 

We do not need to look far for real fear. Beheadings, wars, ebola, abortion, violence, human trafficking, accident trauma, personal loss. How are we teaching our children to prepare for death? Shall we usher them into a classroom of darkness in order to learn? Or shall we keep them wholly in the light as the inevitable pain and agony come to visit them?

What do I ultimately want for my children? A good death. The moment of death is a sacred event that will hopefully see us washed in unprecedented graces. It is the moment we have lived for, when a soul devoted to Love steps into the arms of mercy forever. Many secular Halloween celebrations are often at best, a distraction from that goal and at worst, a distortion.
 

I have read attempts to explain how the use of evil imagery draws us closer to Christ. The annual articles are starting to roll in and one defense in particular caught my eye yesterday. It already has hundreds of Facebook likes and is filled with big words and language that sounds like authoritative Church.  The author tells the reader why Catholics should absolutely participate in a dark Halloween. The ideas seem (on the surface) lofty and Catholic and spiritual. The Catholic author writes on a Catholic site:
 

"Halloween rejoices in this triumph through playful parody, or exultant mockery, of evil by subjecting the powerless symbols of the devil to satirical derision. Witches, goblins, ghosts, skeletons, and the other grotesque objects of man’s imagination are the caricatures of a dethroned evil. There is no fear in these, or even in the devil himself, by the indomitable strength of Christ. Men are the masters, and no longer the servants, of these elemental creatures."
 

This is wholly unsupportable through Sacred Scripture or Sacred Tradition. There is no approved tradition whereby we put on the mask of sin in order to prevail over it. The demons and angels are not "elemental" but spiritual and powerful. Nowhere are we exhorted to dance among the symbols of evil. Even if there is merit in the piece (which I contest), the reality is that most Catholics who like the article will use it primarily as a defense of their participation in the vacuous secular celebration... which is neither lofty, nor Catholic, nor profoundly spiritual. 
 

What is it that the Christian longs for more than anything in life? A GOOD DEATH. A holy death. Scripture tells us that "the sting of death is sin" and that "death has been swallowed up in victory." (Romans 8:31-39) Christ has conquered! There is nothing left to fear except the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. And yet we insist on spending our time playing in the dark. Mocking death.

Where is that exhortation in Catholic tradition? I have not yet found it.

I remember the day I delivered my lifeless baby, Matthew. He was two inches long and marvelous. Some might have seen his little body as gross or gruesome since his skin was translucent and bloodied and his eyes still unopened. But I thought he was beautiful. On that day, my soul also began to yearn much stronger for eternity. The mystery of death was slightly penetrated. And although I grieved heavily, I found that I was less afraid of death. Because of his life and loss, I no longer see death in a "Halloween way." And I do not wish to. Horror will come... sorrow will come... fear will come... all unwilled and unwanted. The true test of our culture is how we have prepared ourselves to deal with it. 
 

My own kids will someday wear blood and hold death in their hands. They will see tragedy and trauma. They will probably witness a beheading or live murder recorded on the internet. I will not shield them from the reality of death. My goal is to prepare them to serve the suffering and wounded who seek the merciful compassion of Christ. They will see plenty of horror on that journey. We don't need a night of candy and plastic ghouls to guide our souls to a Catholic understanding of these things. The real lessons come in the down and dirty of living the works of mercy in the context of a sacramental life. 
 

And that can get downright scary. Jesus, Light of the World, have mercy on us.
 

This article was first published in 2014.

---

And again Jesus spoke to them, saying: "I am the light of the world; he who follows me with not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." (John 8:12)

---

Leaving the Door Open for a Perfect Lent

The perfect Lent usually comes to me as a surprise package, gift wrapped and delivered with a flourish and fireworks. It wears a big tag that says:

For your sanctification, with my deepest love and affection. 

Love, 
Your Heavenly Father

The truth of the matter is that regardless of what amazing mortifications I have planned for myself, I'm always outplayed by the challenges of life... the crosses... the hidden gifts. I never see those road bumps coming because I'm busy putting the comfortable touches on my own Lenten preparations. 

When I go "big" with Lenten prep, I'm usually pretty impressed with myself. But the real secret of a fruitful Lent is what I do when my carefully designed, Pinterest-friendly disciplines are blown up and replaced by the uncontrollable and the downright ugly.

The real secret of Lent for me is not coming up with super creative, impressive ways to pull myself closer to the heart of Jesus... but learning how to use what I have been given to fall in love, embrace my crosses... and allow Him to draw me to Himself.

I once had a very wise and holy friend counsel me during a difficult time. I was feeling helpless that I did not have more to offer for a loved one who was undergoing a great trial...

Perhaps, I said, I should ask God to send me a greater suffering so that I might offer it. With a gentle smile, she responded: Don't ask for more. Not now. When your loving Father sees fit to give you more, He will do it because He knows your heart. And what He allows will be more than you would ever have the courage to ask for. Pray for grace and mercy and faithfulness and trust... the suffering will come in His time, when you are ready.

I was in my 20's at the time. I'm now 41. I get it now. The opportunities to suffer are always present. It is not really our job to make sure those sufferings keep coming, but to focus on drawing close to Christ through every opportunity.

Lent is a training ground. Giving up the cookie is just preparation for the bigger battles.

I have learned over time that God uses Lent efficiently if we let Him, whether or not we accomplish any exceptional self-imposed mortifications or clever crafts with the kids. Those are good practices and habits but they don't necessarily move the soul where God desires it to go. Many of us don't have the courage to push ourselves into life changing self-denial.

We line up the sacrifices and then BOOM! Derailed by the cookie. 

There have been Lents during which he has permitted very obvious sufferings in my family like car accidents, broken bones, family stress, a difficult pregnancy, or serious illness. Other Lents were not so obvious... just a floundering in a place of personal failure or the good old Winter blahs. Perhaps it is lazy of me, but I have stopped focusing heavily on the extra mortifications during this season and have just been really focusing on the ones that I already have. There seem to be plenty enough for my weak soul. Someday. Someday I may be ready for more and I trust that He will know.

This year? I've got a short list of pious sacrifices and then a great big space where I assume God will work. 

We are all in different spiritual places at different times. While you may be adding to your daily prayers, I am likely fighting just to maintain mine. When fasting might be relatively easy for one, it might be a source of great trial for another. While one mother is struggling to make Lent meaningful for her children in the daily household activities, another must accept the limitations of her cancer...

Where God chooses to take us during Lent is intensely personal and individual. The key is to embrace it wholly and willingly. Take me where you want me to go, Lord. Show me how to love you more.

A few years ago, I read a lengthy article criticizing the decision of two prominent Catholics to lead a Lenten retreat on a cruise. The crux of the argument was that a cruise is meant for luxury, not mortification, and the decision to lead others to water (as opposed to the desert) during the Lenten season was a very bad one.

I don't know... it seems to me that God can find our hearts on the open seas and pierce them the same as He would do on dry land.The beautiful surroundings can't keep out the fire of Divine Love. I do not know why the good men chose a cruise as a Lenten retreat venue and can see how it might seem odd. Perhaps they've lived through enough Lents to know that it will all work out just fine, for the greater glory of God and the sanctification of their souls. Perhaps they know, too, that leisure (according to a truly Christian understanding) is consistent with Lent in that it is ordered to bring our minds, bodies, and souls back into focus on the goodness of God.

Based on my personal experience of past Lents (and life in general), however, I would say that their likelihood of contracting some terrible stomach virus during the cruise is quite high. Or likely, they will hit some choppy seas, get paired up with a bunk mate that snores, or find that their sciatica is acting up. Or perhaps, they will be blessed with enough space and grace and time to come face to face with a deep and buried grief or interior suffering...

... because Lents often come packaged like that.

Some years I'm sent a rocky sea or spoiled shellfish. Other years, I find myself on a sinking ship. Other years it's just that stupid cookie. But always with a flourish and a bang and that handwritten note from God. And at the end of the note, it says...

P.S.   I give you these gifts because I love you beyond all telling or imagining. Everything in the package is a treasure. You will not know how to use it at first.... but I will show you. Keep close to my heart. We will walk together through each moment. I will set your heart on fire. And when you feel that you cannot walk a moment longer, I will take your cross and raise you up with me. Easter is coming... Let us begin.

The secret of the perfect Lent is simply to rely more on the transformative power of the Holy Spirit than on our checklist. To walk slowly, humbly, quietly along the path of personal holiness; ready to die to self so as to be ready to rise with Him. Letting Him lead... Even when it hurts. 

If that Lenten secret includes the carefully planned sacrifices you willing make? Thanks be to God. But it might also include some bad shellfish.... and that's often where the real sanctification happens. 

Crossing the Threshold to Joy in the New Year

My heavenly Father spoils me when He knows it isn't going to ruin me; and the rest of the time He allows me to grow strong in Him, even when growth requires that I first be broken...

I stepped up to the precipice of the New Year with a burden of sorrow on my heart. It thumped a dull but steady pain, and I stumbled over the exhausting thought that another year was starting... and I had nothing left in the tank to bring. The knowledge of how truly blessed I am sustained me... but the feeling of blessing was gone. 

I knew those truths but still lost courage, slowed to a crawl, and barely inched over the threshold of 2018. 

My Lord loves me passionately, foolishly, endlessly... and knowing that kept me pushing through these last months even though I raised my petulant, childish fists in His direction more than once.   So much like my 1-year old who is all cuddles and peaches until he is sick or tired... and then his tiny frantic clenched hands will swing even at his own mama.

My "Where is God?" sounded pathetic even to me while I swam in a life of absolute treasure and abundant love and goodness. Pathetic little fists of fury.

I am LOVE. Why do you strike at me? 

Because I need you... but I am tired. I am afraid.

When I'm healthy and in control, I don't necessarily feel His absence or His Presence at all since my focus is solely on me. It is so easy to say "I AM BLESSED!" and "I feel God's Presence" when things go my way; but the consequence of that shallow understanding of relationship means that the slightest discomfort can throw me into a mini faith crisis.

I assume that my comfort means that He is present and that my discomfort equals His absence... like a feverish toddler who doesn't understand that the hand of Love is not also the cause of the pain. 

And this year... oh my... this year...

He let me hit bottom hard in so many ways... mentally, physically, spiritually... even while He held my wounded body and soul.  My sufferings are truly so small when held up to the heartache of the world. But I hadn't prepared well to carry even a light cross and my own small heart filled, swelled, and burst.

Am I going to die soon, Lord? Is that what's going on? Why the sacrificial pile-on? If you try to give me that kind of medicine, I'm going to wail and thrash and throw it up. You'll have to hold me down...

So He did.

My faith was rocked. My body was attacked by disease. My heart died and grieved a thousand times and I grew smaller.

You have left me, Lord! Shall I just become a Protestant now? Or maybe just a nothing? Yes, a nothing... Then there will be no expectations and no disappointment.

That tiny and ridiculous threat poured out of my broken soul with a torrent of tears and a weight of sorrow which I could not bear on my own. I felt it and knew it and...

He called my bluff instantly.

He created me, formed me, restored me, awakened me... and He knew that I would not go. He held me down like the petulant toddler that I am, not with force but with irresistible fire... 

Twenty years ago, I would have left you, Lord, because I wouldn't have been sure about you. But I know Who You are. You are irrefutable. You are solid and deep and forever. You are flower, you are ocean, you are Life. If I deny you now, I deny myself and could not just become a nothing but would necessarily become depraved. I cannot choose that.

So I chose joy.

I chose to remain at His feet and let Him be Father. 

From that place, I was safe and free to look around and see how He has woven my joy and my salvation into the very fiber of my enormously beautiful and bountiful life. 

God sends His Holy Spirit endlessly across the wasteland. He pours life into the cracks of our brokenness and whispers the gentle command: TRUST. And He sends us His earthly servants and heavenly brethren to carry us faithfully and tenderly. 

I recently chose my saint of the year... or rather let the saint choose me... St. George.

I thought that was very appropriate since I sought courage and strength for the next leg of the journey. Then I chose my word of the year through a random generator... STRENGTH.

Yes. I'll take it. Not on the false premise that I will grow in strength and power but that God will use the emptying of this last year to fill my life with His Presence. I will still be broken, still be small, still be weak, tempted, stumbling, and humiliated. But I will be strong in His majesty...

... and what a blessed relief. I'm ready to hand over the weight.

New Year's passed along with a birthday party and a feast day celebration. I shut off the parts of my heart that couldn't bear another step and just kept going. And then... joy began to grow again.

I know you, Joy... I have known you all along but I have been battered and torn and tired. But the Spirit buried you deep in my soul many years ago and that is how You return to me...

Not from the outside pouring in... but from the inside blossoming out. 

You are showering me with grace.
You are restoring my faith and my hope.
You are washing my eyes free from the dust.
You are sanctifying the suffering and...
Breathing life into the lifeless.

I open a book and You speak to me about STRENGTH...

Awake, and strengthen what remains and is on the point of death... (Revelation 3:2)

And I rise again with Christ.

However...

I didn't rise until I had cried out to God with raging tears.
I didn't rise until I had been physically broken and felt real fear of death for the first time.
I didn't rise until my heart had been broken by loss.
I didn't rise until I suffered humiliation.
I didn't rise until I had failed people I love.
Until I saw that I couldn't shake the cross.
Until I couldn't reconcile the scandal.
Until I lost the sunshine.
Couldn't fill the void.
Couldn't mend my own heart.
Couldn't. Be. God.

Then... THEN He rose in my heart like the gentle morning sunshine and invited me to begin again with the consolation of His hope and joy planted deep in my soul. 

You are not lost, Daughter... You were just sleeping...

Awake, and strengthen what remains and is on the point of death... (Revelation 3:2)

2018 is not going to be a cake walk. For all I know, it could surpass the startling 2017. But He makes it all easy and sweet in His time. Thanks be to God.

"...and as they sailed he fell asleep. And a storm of wind came down on the lake, and they were filling with water, and were in danger. And they went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we are perishing!” And he awoke and rebuked the wind and the raging waves; and they ceased, and there was a calm. He said to them, “Where is your faith?” And they were afraid, and they marveled, saying to one another, “Who then is this, that he commands even wind and water, and they obey him?” (Luke 8:23-25)

How Motherhood Can Heal the Jaded Woman

New motherhood is a golden moment in a woman's life where the opportunity to be permanently changed is tangible, powerful, and immediate. No, I'm not talking about whether or not YOU feel or see any difference. The change happens regardless; because the child is placed into your arms and instantly, you are loved... by a brand new person who doesn't know anything about your failures. And frankly, doesn't care.

Doesn't care if your hair is all messy from labor.
Doesn't care if you've got dark circles under your eyes.
Doesn't care if you are struggling to find words.
Doesn't care if you aren't sure about this whole motherhood thing. 

His love is yours. Period. 

It is an exquisite moment of renewal. There is no history. No memory of wrongs done. A clean slate. 

Those eyes and tiny fingers... they seek you out as often as possible. To connect with you and to love and be loved. Special talent is not required... simply your presence. 

We tend to think of ourselves as being in a role of power over our little ones, but perhaps the greatest potential power is that of the child over a mother's heart. We think we are the lovers and the healers. But I don't know... seems to me that the greater power lies in the helpless devotion of the child.

I was just 21 years old when I held my firstborn; and those initial moments were not ones in which I felt dominant or in control, but ones in which I felt smaller and more humbled than I ever had in my life.

My arrogance fell away.
My selfishness fell away.
My knowledge fell away.
My self-importance fell away.

I held a tiny human in my arms and felt as though I held the mysteries of the universe all wrapped up in my soft baby. Aware of my complete insignificance, I let the awe and fear wash over me in giant waves as the nurses showed me how to care for my son. Those waves crashed upon me again and again as he cried in hunger and turned toward me for nourishment and comfort. And again as I changed him for the first time. Imperfectly.

And still he loved me. 

As those waves of emotion rolled over me, I felt the sharp edges of my womanhood softening, smoothed by the tiny majestic moments. My memories now forever included this child and were filled by him. And no pain or bitterness that I had felt in my life would ever again be felt as sharply simply because he was there. No wound that I had received could hurt as much as the love of this child could heal. 

When I tell people that I've had 8 children, they often stare in astonishment. You must be crazy! Life must be very hard! But I have a secret that they don't know...

The births and the love and the precious lives of my children have continuously washed over me for the last twenty years... and my bitterness doesn't stand a chance. My heart hardens and then it softens; washed over time and again by the smiles and tears of the most precious people on earth.

I am sometimes envious of the beautiful professional women I see around town with their pretty shoes and manicures. I wonder if I will ever be without a little one on my hip or a baby nursing at my breast. And then I remember...

I am happy. I am softened. I am loved. 

As the children have grown, that hard edge sometimes threatens to creep back into my soul again alongside the sufferings and sorrows of life. Shut the door! It cries. You can't be hurt if you keep it closed. And I shout back...

It is a lie.

Let your love wash over me, Jesus... let your love wash me soft. That even when the bitterness rises in my memory, it can never stand against the rolling power of your merciful love. 

How the Love of Another Man Pushed Me Into My Husband's Arms

Photo courtesy of the beautiful Jeannette Ayoob-Urban

The man stood alone among over 50 women, speaking to them about their own womanhood...

Imagine a weekend retreat with all those women women attending with only that one man, a priest, to dilute the beautiful conflagration of estrogen. I was there and it was awesome. The positive feminine energy was a wonderful balm for my soul. So many "little mothers" to nurture and support!  And oh yes, the healing tears flowed.

Yet as much as I acknowledge the unique role that women play for each other in life (indispensable, really), I also returned home with a renewed appreciation for the role of men in how we come to see ourselves as women... and how we learn to draw closer to Christ through their steady witness.

It doesn't seem like it should have worked out well at all; a lone man speaking about womanhood and motherhood to a bunch of women (mostly mothers) who have 100% more life experience as females than he! But Father's words were more powerful for me than those of any woman I have ever heard speak. They challenged and pierced and illuminated the treasure of my femininity in a new way. And there's a growing part of me (not the former strident feminist part) that marvels and wonders what it is about a man that has the unique power to do just that. 

This experience of masculine speaking to feminine about the feminine was marvelous and unlike some male Catholic speakers who try to understand the "feminine genius" through their masculine lens and misapplication of JPII's marvelous Theology of the Body. 

I have taken the whole experience apart in my mind a dozen times since I've been home. Without analyzing too much, here are a few points I've been pondering... 

• The complementarity of man and woman goes well beyond the sexual and does not even need a sexual context or metaphor to be true and powerful. We have been given to each other in service by God and we have been made for each other. The sexual context is singular to the married vocation. I am only married to one man... and yet that complementarity with all other men still exists in a completely beautiful and non-sexual context. I am a bride. I am also physical and spiritual daughter, sister, and mother to many.

• The priest is consecrated and celibate but still fully male. His masculine gifts put him in a position to lead woman but also to be upheld by her. It is why we kneel for a blessing before him and why he clings to Mary and is upheld by the Spiritual Motherhood which is so honored by the Church.

• The authentic words of affirmation and confidence given by a man have a powerful impact on a woman... perhaps even more so than another woman can give. As Pope Saint John Paul II said so perfectly:
  
  "God has assigned as a duty to every man the dignity of every woman." 

Father's priestly counsel pierced my feminine heart all weekend. I was impacted not only by his words through his priestly office, but also by who he was as a person.  And my appreciation grew, not as a fangirl but as a spiritual daughter/sister being led to greatness in Christ. When he looked at us women and told us that we were beautiful in who we are and within the context of our vocation, I believed him; but instead of being drawn to his side, my desire for home steadily ignited. 

Fr. Nathan Cromley {Photo courtesy of Jayme Orn Photography}

That is what every man should do for every woman... Point her to vocation, to her greatness, to her spouse, to her Lord. That is what every woman should do for every man... Show him his capacity for greatness in Christ at home and in the world.

The nearer Father led us to Christ, the stronger that desire grew until it was a flame that became a blazing fire. I was enjoying the retreat and yet I longed to see my husband. To serve him. To be held by him. And a repeated daydream (that also became a dream during sleep) took hold of me there...

I imagined that my husband and I were holding hands and walking up the center aisle of the chapel toward our Eucharistic Lord exposed in the monstrance. And when we arrived in front of Jesus, we knelt together and received His blessing.

It was a physical longing and gripped me so tightly that it surprised me. 

Each time I heard my spiritual Father speak, that desire for my both my husband and my God increased. One man leading me closer to another man, my spouse... through Christ.

Many words have been written about the need in our Church for manly priests; men who not only understand their priestly identity but who understand it in the context of their masculine nature. It is not just an exercise in pastoral speculation... But a true need.

I not only reject the idea of women priests from a theological standpoint but also from a natural one. We need these men, these soul lovers who have taken up the cross of service for our salvation. We need not just what they do but who they are. Their masculinity is a gift that we cannot set aside as some random assignment of biological pieces. 

A woman needs men who will look into her eyes with their strong, confident, gentle love... and communicate to her the matter of her dignity. It is often said that culture will be restored by the heart, the woman. But...

Woman needs man to lead and to teach her through his words and love about her own dignity.
Man needs woman to support him as he carries his cross in the world.
He finds his own dignity and home in the heart of the feminine.
She finds her fortress and fire in the masculine.

It is my fervent prayer that the men of the Church will learn the significance of that role and take it up. Oh, how they could change the world! They are inclined to take it by might and sheer effort but do not know their own potential as soul-lovers.

I left the retreat a little early and went home late Saturday night, missing the two remaining hours on Sunday morning. I wanted to stay and continue to drink deeply from the retreat experience but I also wanted to be able to go to Mass with my family, to be able to sleep a little more deeply (even a quiet retreat stretched my physical limits during this pregnancy), and to hold my littlest girl who was missing her mommy. But mostly...

I wanted to see my husband. 

He texted me a response to my invitation saying: "Whatever you want to do is fine. Stay as long as you like. If you want me to come early, I will." I replied:

"Come and get me!"

... and I felt like a school girl while I waited. I also felt a little like a young bride waiting to see my groom before our our nuptial Mass. My eyes filled with tears when he walked through the door. He got bonus points for the roses that he brought me (husbands, take note!) but I would have rejoiced regardless.

After we arrived home, we imprudently but joyfully stayed up with the children until 1:00 am just being together before family prayers. My toddler fell asleep curled up on my lap and I fell asleep on the couch so quickly that I didn't even kiss my spouse goodnight.

It's not a story of glamorous romance. We are messy, we are weak, and we are broken... And we fall asleep when we don't mean to.

But the more attentive I am to my Lord, the more my heart is drawn to my home. And sometimes, it takes another man to remind me that to be fully who I am in Christ means to draw closer, not to the activity of my vocation, but to the souls with whom I have been entrusted.

The last time I went on retreat (over 11 years ago), I came home ready to change my husband... to form him more perfectly to my (stunted) vision of holy. That was partially (or largely) my immaturity and partially the questionable direction from the priest who essentially told me that my apostolic work was more important than the heart of my husband. And... it was kind of a disaster. I disrespected the treasure that my faithful, prayerful, hard-working, generous, amazing man that my husband always has been. I don't know if he was nervous about my return home this time (he was nothing but encouraging) but he would certainly have been justified! This time however, Father said something (among many things of value) that helped me correct that former error:

Jesus doesn't need new ministries, He needs lovers.

Instead of coming home with an agenda, I came home with a gentle fire. Instead of coming home to make changes to my family members, I came home to love them. Instead of coming home with a list and a massive plan, I came home with the courage to just begin again in steady charity. I also came home with a dozen red roses and a renewed appreciation for the irreplaceable role of the masculine presence in the feminine life. 

To any men reading...

Please lead the women in your life to Christ. Love them, give them courage by your own example, forgive them, make sure they have what they need to be well, and help them see their own beauty and dignity. 

To the women...

Let them. And then serve them with faithfulness, confidence, mercy, and joy. For those who suffer in that holy work, I share a few more of Father's words:

“When your heart is pierced, when your tears flow... Blessed be God! There aren’t enough tears in the world.”

To my husband...

I have no words for the gift that you have always been and continue to be in my life. You married a bratty teenager and you've loved and nurtured her into the woman that I am. Full of weakness and holes and sinfulness, yes... but also so happy. You have poured yourself out to give me life, hope, joy, and Jesus. You have tempered my wayward estrogen with the gentle strength. You have served even when there was no obvious return on the investment. Twenty years ago, you were the one who answered my questions about Christ and then set about to show me... and you are still leading. What all that means to me is inexpressible and touches an intimate part of my soul that knows no adequate expression. But I thank you. And I renew my commitment to our Christ-centered eternal love. 

Thanks be to God!

“Allow yourselves to hunger... Fall in love with Jesus.” {Fr. Nathan Cromly}

We are fast approaching our 20th wedding anniversary. May Blessed Mother continue to lead us united to her Son.

Retreat jewelry craft led by artist Andrea Singarella. Roses from my husband. Name tag from the Arise retreat.

Photo of the attendees of the Arise Retreat. Over 50 amazing women... and one Fr. Nathan. {Photo courtesy of Jayme Orn Photography} My deepest gratitude to Brooke Taylor for running with the inspiration of the Holy Spirit to make this event happen and to every woman there who said yes to that same Spirit by attending. 

Photo of our walking Rosary courtesy of Jayme Orn Photography

A Mother's Secret Moment {surrendering to life}

I sit in the darkness and count my blessings. Over and over I count them... and then add one more. It is that profound moment in a mother's life. That isolated, heavy, light, surreal moment when no one in the whole world knows except mother of the biggest thing that really ever happens. A new soul... a new soul. The whole world swirls around me in the dark. And I sway and count rhythmically and slowly. Buying a little time, catching  my breath. Measuring time so that I won't miss the breathtaking moment when the soul chooses surrender... and joy.

It takes two days to find that surrender. It isn't that I'm not willing or that I don't know it will come... but that the world is noisy and fast and I need time - time to be alone with this seedling - and to allow the unfolding to occur. 

It never feels like a yesat first but rather a moment of sheer stark terror when mortality and heaven collide with tremendous force. And the first and only thing I want to do in that moment... is to set down my cross. May I, Lord? May I set it down? Just for a moment?

Just for a moment, He says. I will take it. Lean in, Melody... lean in. I will carry your cross until you are ready to pick it up.

Am I ever really ready to pick it up again? From the very first moment two decades ago when I learned I was a mother, I was ready to run. That first time I only feared the unknown. After that, I knew very well why I was afraid; and it is for that reason that I need this precious moment in the silent isolated darkness... to face it and surrender over and over again. Nine times now I have done it. And nine times I have watched my capacity for life expand beyond reasonable bounds. I know the truth about joy. But I just need a moment.

I used to have to wait for the little plus sign... but now I just know the signs of my body. I've done this enough to know the drill. My body changes. My emotions change. My cravings change. My very soul begins to change. Another weak fiat is clasped in my nervous hands - two pink lines -and I slowly uncurl those stubborn fingers. 

What will the world think, Lord?
What do youthink, daughter?

I am overwhelmed by the injustice of the dampening of pure joy by the hardness of worldly hearts... and my temper flares. This child is too beautiful for the world! Too glorious for their eyes and judgments! But I am tainted like the world... and I am tired. And... I just need a moment.

So the darkness remains and my eyes are squeezed shut, wishing the cross to be lighter. But I will my hands to rise up with my fiat. My fingers splay outward and surrender rolls off the tips and also off my tongue and out of my very soul...

Yes. I surrender. With joy.

A tremendous wave of grace crashes upon me, reminding me that He is powerful. That love is not a sentiment but a wild sea. It is a raging storm that draws in the heart and raises it higher... higher... higher. But it takes crazy courage to invite it in and let it reign. 

This child is more than my fear. An immortal soul. Imago Dei.I surrender to awe. I surrender to love. I speak my fears one more time but it is only a ceremonial act. I throw them out fiercely one by one and watch my mighty God strike them down...

Sickness.
Weakness.
Failure.
Discomfort.
Loss of control.
Ridicule.
Miscarriage.
Loss of freedom.
The pains of birth.
Loss of time.

I shout them out and He slays them as dragons and binds the lies which grip my heart. And He replaces them with a song...

You are enough. Your baby is enough. You are free to love. You are free to know joy. Dance in the Presence of your heavenly Father and make an offering of your very life. It is beautiful and good and you know it is. You look into the eyes of your children and you know that you have already embraced this little one... that this moment is the beginning of surrender to joy. Let the blossoming begin. 

It used to be that I was eager to share our news immediately. As the years have gone by and our numbers increased, I am less and less eager. It seems the moment the word is spoken, the mystery is diminished under blithe speech and gossip. The sacred treasure is exposed to harsh light. The talk turns to names and dates and nausea and numbers. And really... all I want to do is breathe in the unspeakable beauty of the sacred dignity of the newly created soul. Eventually, I will get to those other details... but for now, I just rest in the moment. Thanks be to God.