on shattered things

 There is no place where earth's sorrows
are more felt than in heaven.

According to CNN, 566 people were found dead today in Syria. Dead from war, a six day campaign in the area.

And a few days ago, this:

How to make sense of it all. To really realize that we aren't at all promised tomorrow, even the next moment. To realize that we can never truly know the heart of another person we share this earth with, but somehow must love them anyway. To even begin to let that word - mercy - reverberate around the chambers of your heart because it can't fit in your head.

How to walk down that sidewalk again? How do we not see death around every corner? How do we stand, tall and proud and strong, hate choking the life out of this world? How do we keep our hearts pure, and not be devoured by evil?

There are humvees rolling down the street and soldiers with assault rifles and blood on a sidewalk I've walked down a hundred times and shrapnel and a dead 8 year old and a father suddenly taken and at the center of it all, a family. 

Maybe it's because I'm away from my home, away from these streets and the thick of it, but I don't feel rage or acute hate, I feel a kind of deep down sadness. We can hardly look at this, it hurts too much, like looking right at the sun. But when I do, I see a 19-year-old boy. A 19-year-old boy, too young to even know who he is, somehow filling his heart up to the brim with enough evil to do this. When does a heart stop beating good and starts beating evil?

I wake up on a Saturday and hear how they finally caught him, huddled and hiding and dying in a boat, it feels like the morning after Good Friday.

At Mass this morning, because I don't live in Massachusetts right now, the priest didn't talk about it. He told a story about a little sheep that every day went further and further out of the fold and away from the good shepherd until one day he was so far the wolf devoured him. How much does the good shepherd mourn for the lost one?

 

I sit in church today and I listen to the homily, run my fingers over the smooth pages, the short gospel. He's talking about shepherds and all I picture are the cattlemen out here. The Levis and the rough hands and the dirt-caked boots and dusty wide-brimmed hat and the crinkly face, tanned by the prairie sun.

I picture the Good Shepherd like this. And my Jesus becomes so gritty and raw and real that he's right there in the mud and blazing hot earth sun with us.

Easter Mass, Vatican, 2013

More and more, I'm learning that there is only one thing, truly, that we can hold on to. When my students' stories get to be too much, and the world itself is too much, I can always find solace in the cross. I say it now and I'll have to preach it to myself every moment of every day for the rest of my life.

When everything is shattered and the whole world is falling apart, the cross is still held together. The Cross still holds all shattered things together.

don't you worry, child

The Never Ending Story: Winter in South Dakota

The sounds of my Sunday morning: Lena Horne, Rosemary Clooney, Glenn Miller on a radio, background music over cappuccino being poured, mumbled conversation, busy but mellow. People on laptops, alone but all together. Older woman highlighting a book, younger women, teachers, like me, planning the week, seating charts for a class. 

Like me, they are probably from somewhere else. Like me, they come to this shop to plan, to self-soothe, to refresh before Monday comes. 

We come here for our Sunday rituals, sink into the safe warmth of low lighting and booths and coffee. Maybe pick up a dripping, sticky cinnamon bun, a hot cup of Kona, warm from the inside out.

* 

It's hard to be from somewhere else and land here. Dropped here; by choice but unknowing all the same. "The revolving door of South Dakota," they say.

And Longing.

It's a living force, a driving force, and it brings us out here. Away from the flashing lights of the coasts and the glittering oceans of people and Things to Do and Places to Go and out here to the desert. 

To the dry and weary and empty plains. Parched land. Hard, cold earth. Unyielding, unforgiving, unkind.

We are all longing for something or else we wouldn't be out here. Some of us don't even know what that is, what we're looking for. 

Maybe we're looking for the beginning. 

The start of the road, the canku wakan, the red road, the holy road, narrow and rocky. A long dirt road out in the hills that takes you home.

* 

In two months I'll be back in Boston. Back with familiar faces, slink back into the crowd. Not so exposed, so vulnerable.

Because out here that's what you are. All the time. You're from Somewhere Else; you got on a plane far away and came out here, you packed in a suitcase all the bits of yourself you've put together your whole life, landed here, and found that most of what you packed won't survive the winter. 

Sometimes they'll forgive you for it, for not being enough. Sometimes they won't. 

Sometimes the kids will ask you why on earth you would ever want to leave There and come Here? What's Here? And you will respond, "You are here. I came because you are here." And some days this will be true, and some days it won't.

Some days you'll miss the five minute drive to Starbucks, and good seafood, and huge malls, and concerts and movie theatres and being comfortable.

Out here almost every day, multiple times a day, I feel like Jennifer Lawrence falling at the Oscars.

Basically.

But some days the clouds will part and the huge sun will flood the huge sky and the wide open plains with light and warmth and a gentle breeze and you will close your eyes and listen to the silence.

 

This beautiful, scary silence that breaks something open in you. Something you didn't even know was closed.

And it hurts. It hurts to be broken open, poured out like a clay mug.

Or maybe you find yourself outside at night. Outside on the prairie and it's a clear night, the clearest night you've ever seen. And you look up, tilt your head all the way back and you still can't take it all in. It just goes on forever this night sky; and you can see, if you really open your eyes, every single thing that's up there.

                                          

7 quick takes {special edition} {also vol. 8}

Normally, and because of the genius of Jen Fulwiler, I devote these quick takes to my takes on the week, any happenings in my life and/or pop culture. This week I'm going to shake things up a bit. I'm going to try to tell a story in 7 points. If it's horrible, I beg your forgiveness. If it's boring, just skip to point 7. Here we go.

(1)
About a year ago, around this time, I graduated from college, was totally lost in the world, and had no idea what to do next.

(2)
A few months before that, and through the summer, God, like a good cook over his crock-pot, was randomly (or so I thought) stirring in me a deep interest in the Dakotas, particularly South Dakota. Maybe it was because I'd never been to the plains, maybe it was because of the Native American culture, I don't know. But there it was.



(3)
Because of this I was interested in watching a Frontline documentary (which I NEVER do) about a struggling Native American reservation in South Dakota. And it broke my heart.

(4)

It came at a time when I was distant from God, away from Mass and the sacraments. But I had such a strong reaction to this, all I could think was - these poor people, who have been so neglected by the rest of America, need hope. Not that I thought I could give to them - hope was in short supply for me at that time. 

(5)

But I contacted some people who were doing really beautiful work, planting seeds of hope in a (seriously) dry and weary land. I never thought anything would come of it. But, somehow, God, in drawing me back to Himself, made it so clear to me this was exactly where He wanted me to be next year.

(6)

I fought God for MONTHS over this. Did I really want to move 2,000 miles away from everything, and everyone I loved?? NO! No Starbucks, no Barnes and Nobles, no TV, no more driving my car. Did I say no Starbucks? Obviously, Jesus won that epic arm wrestle.

(7)

As a result of all this madness, I will be leaving for South Dakota in just a week! To get in the mood, so to speak, I've been reading a lot of the wild frontier books. Okay, so they mostly have been historical romance novels. Same thing. The point is, they inspired me to try to look at this new step in my life as one big, 'Wild West' adventure. Like I'm heading out west searching for gold or something. I'll be chronicling my journey on a special page on the blog every week or so. It's not totally set up yet, so stay tuned!

God bless you all! <3 

7 quick takes {v. 7}

1. 

Is it just me or did this week feel reeeeaaaalllly llloooonnngggg? I think it's because of the Fourth of July. Speaking of which, did you all see that video from San Diego where, due to a computer issue, an 18 minute fireworks show (all 7,000 fireworks) went off at once, in 15 seconds? Yeah.

2.
This week my family and I went to see the new Spider Man movie. At first I didn't want to see it because I thought it was kind of silly that they were rebooting the series. But I LOVED it!! It was absolutely nothing like the Tobey Maguire movies. I highly recommend it (although it might be too long for little ones!)

3.
Besides Spider Man, this has been kind of a weird couple of weeks in pop culture, yeah? "Magic Mike" was released (blech) and Fifty Shades
of Grey has somehow become THE book for American women. Now that someone has finally told me what the book is about I'm stupefied, horrified, and mystified.

Remember the good old days? *jk*

4.

I'm thinking of doing a post on these happenings, especially in terms of a single girl trying to live a chaste life. It doesn't exactly help keep impure thoughts away when I've got Channing Tatum's abs thrown in my face! World, give a girl a break! If any of you have any thoughts on this, let me know by tweet or here or whatever so I can incorporate it! 

5.

Now if you're looking for a good book to read, I've been going through Papa Benedicto's latest Jesus of Nazareth book. I promise you, you'll be blown away. His writing style is so personal and like a teacher who gently guides you through the Scriptures until you see what he sees, which will change the way you see Jesus. Here are a couple of excerpts to show you what I mean:

"When all is said and done, the future will not place us in any other situation than the one to which our encounter with Jesus has already brought us." (p. 50)

"'Heaven and earth will pass away, but my word will not pass away' (Mk 13:31). The word--which seems almost nothing in comparison to the mighty power of the immeasurable material cosmos, like a fleeting breath against the silent grandeur of the universe--the word is more real and more lasting than the entire material world...[It] is the solid ground on which we can stand, which holds firm even when the sun goes dark and the firmament disintegrates." (p. 51)

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Fifty Shades of lame, guy!

6. 

When I was on vacation a couple of weeks ago that on my maternal grandmother's side (which is German) I have a great-aunt or something who used to be a barmaid in Bavaria! I saw this picture of her when she literally looked like one of those Viking women with the outfit and an armful of giant beer mugs. This wouldn't be so cool, except for the fact that she was barmaid to THE POPE!! 

Ja!

Apparently, he was one of the regulars and my dear old great-aunt would plop a cold one in front of him whenever he came in. What's more, the whole family from Bavaria even went to the church where he was pastor! Ahh! I'm pushing for them to see they can wrangle a personal visit with the Pope (does he even do that?) but it's a work in progress. Still, how cool is that??

7. 

If you've made it this far, I want to personally thank you for putting up with my little rants and raves! Stay tuned, because I have some neat plans in the near future for this place! God bless!

lord, have your way

I've been thinking a lot lately about surrender. About Jesus, the Good Shepherd. About following wherever He leads.

Like St. Augustine, I have long tired of running from Him. It's the scariest thing to ask Him to change you, transform you, reshape you and remake you. And the walls around my heart are made of stone.

But no matter how far you run, there's always that still small voice, calling you home, "Come. Come.."

And, He tells us, He calls us by name, and we, His lost sheep, will always recognize His voice. No matter how far we wander.

It's been a long, hard tug-of-war, and I have fought Him over every little thing He asks of me. But how can I deny Him? Him who poured out every inch of Himself for me?

Today, give Him your praise, your worship. I don't know if you're aware of my epic love for Hillsong United, but their new CD, "Cornerstone", is just as incredible as all their other ones. Watching this video, I couldn't help but cry out to Jesus. Make these words your words, let Him heal your broken heart and bind up all your wounds.

Lord, have your way in me...

7 quick takes (vol. 6)

1.)  Last week found me in a very strange place. A Piggly Wiggly's, to be exact. And this place: 

I really like grits. Just sayin'.

And here too:

That girl! Where did she come from?!?!

Where is this magical land, you ask?

2) Georgia! 

3) And yes, we saw Miss Paula Deen's digs. And, yes, it was too expensive to eat in. 

4) Don't you just love vacation? We abandoned soggy old New England a couple of weeks ago and headed south where it was warm and toasty and the Confederate flag still hangs out on billboards and the backs of pickup trucks. Basically, South Carolina. It was soooo much fun! We got to spend some time with family and some pretty chill gators and even a dolphin!

5) I introduce: Casper the Friendly Dolphin!

Aaah!! A real, live dolphin!!

(Ignore my brother's head. He got in my way! Gah!)

6) Basically, there's this little cove sort of thing where rich people live. 

You can't really tell but this house was huge! And it had an infinity pool!

And in this cove, there is the Walmart greeter of dolphins who likes to come up alongside entering boats and say hello. I came THIS close to touching his nose but when he realized I was just a human (and not a fish) he swam off. It was still pretty awesome!

7) But back to the Piggly Wiggly's. I love traveling to and experiencing different places! I love going down South especially (despite the "damn yankees" comments and Tennessee drivers. Sorry, Tennessee, but it's true). It's so different from where I live that it just refreshes my soul!

We just don't have trees like this up here!

And the time away from daily distractions was so good for me. I had time to really think and meditate about what God has in store for me this coming year. Taking time to just relax and sit by the sea, allowed God to just pour out peace on me and soothe my anxieties. Have you found time to just be still yet this summer? To refresh yourself in Him? 

he's got the whole world

I held it in my hand, the pale green, cheerfully colored box. The one, tiny pale yellow pill. I flipped through the glossy, mini guidebook, to make sure...to make sure what I don't know, I just needed something to do. It's just a little pill; it looks like my allergy medicine, or headache medicine.

But it wasn't.

It started with a panicked look, eyes that I'd seen a hundred times before, that I knew as well as my own, a cold hand on my wrist: "The condom broke."

And it ended with me, in a car, in the parking lot of CVS, holding the box, the one with the pill. The morning-after pill, that is.

--

We practically grew up together. She was only a couple of years younger than me and we were the only cousins on this side of the family that lived close enough to see each other. We spent every summer together, all of us, since I was born.

We were like sisters, my little cousin and I. And the last time I saw her before this she had never had a boyfriend, had never had sex.

I tried to tell her how even though it's the hardest thing, harder than the Olympics, it's worth it, it's so worth it to wait, you won't regret it. I wrote her a letter once trying to convince her that she is beautiful and loved and that someday a man will come, a good man who treats her right, not like her father, but who tells her every day that she is precious to him and amazing and smart, someday this man will come and he will have been worth it.

Then, she meets a guy, a guy at work, the bartender, who's several years older, and who has told her all those things. He tells her she's beautiful and calls her "Princess" and tells her he loves her and everything else she's been waiting her whole life to hear from a man.

When I finally see her again after a few months of us "being busy" she's asking if she can trust me with a secret and her eyes are wide and scared, her hand on my wrist: "The condom broke."

The story of how this guy swept her off her feet comes in the car. At first she wants to go to the local Planned Parenthood but, honestly, I can't stomach that, so we go to CVS. She's telling me how wonderful he is, how much they love each other, how she knows, she just knows he would take care of them, her and baby, but they also have a problem because he wants to move back to California and maybe she wants to go with him.

I haven't said anything; me of a thousand words, and I can't find any good ones. I tell myself I'm overreacting, people have sex all the time, lots of people don't wait, heck, I have friends who didn't wait but who I still love and respect--

She turns to me at a stoplight, a hand hesitantly fits into mine, my little lost cousin, "Please don't be angry with me. Please come in with me. I need you to come in with me. This is the right thing to do, right? Right?"

For a second, I think she might cry. She's looking at me, needing me to say the right thing, and suddenly all the voices of the past few months, of all the times I've argued, online and in real life about contraception, about the HHS Mandate, about abortion and Planned Parenthood, are sucked up like by a vacuum into this one moment.

I squeeze back. I tell her: I'm not angry, how could I be? I love you. I'll go in with you. I'll keep your secret.

The light changes. She gives a nervous laugh, he'd kick me out you know, my dad. I nod, I know. She says she thinks her mom knows she's started having sex but hasn't said anything but, don't get pregnant.

I feel like I'm failing her, and myself. Like I've already failed. In the back of my mind, the old tape is playing. It's okay, don't overreact, it's just sex.

We're there. I can't be, I just cannot get pregnant, she says under her breath, and I can see her envisioning it. They'd kick me out and our whole family will say I'm a slut and I'd have nowhere to go.

She asks for "a Plan B, please." The woman behind the counter looks at me, momentarily uncertain. My cousin is older than eighteen but looks much younger, and especially now, under the fluorescent lights, her face is bright red and she's trying to hid behind her bangs. Again, she looks like she might cry and I think she looks even younger than that.

When we get back to the car she opens the box, pulls the pill pack out and hands me the directions and the little question-and-answer booklet ("What if I'm already pregnant?" "What does Plan B do?"). I know this is the right thing, I mean, this is the right thing to do, right? She keeps saying.We look at the little yellow pill in her palm and I fail her again. I can't say yes. I can't make the word come out. I just tell her, it'll be okay.

How do I do this? How do I take it? But I can't answer that either so she takes a sip of water and then the pill.

She closes her eyes and sighs, her head falls back on the seat, relief. There, it's done. There, whatever secret thing may have been happening within her, it's done.

And, right then, I believe everything I've said the last few years. Everything I've said about contraception and abortion and babies and making babies, I suddenly believe it. My heart believes it.

She's more relaxed now, less nervous, and we go home. She'd driven a couple of towns over so she wouldn't run into anyone she knew.

Something comes over me and I turn to her, a knot in my throat. I would help you. I would drop everything and drive down here and get you and you wouldn't be homeless.

She tries to cut me off -- don't say that, I'm not pregnant. As if by speaking the words, I could accidentally speak a baby into being.

I'm serious, I say. You're not a slut. I believe in you. I know people who can help you. I know it would feel like your whole life is over but it wouldn't be. It really wouldn't be. I would do whatever I had to, I would take time off work. I would come down here and I would help you.

And I knew, with all my heart, I would. I don't know how, but I would.

She doesn't say anything for a while, then, thank you for coming with me. But it's okay because I know she's heard me.

When we get back into town, back home, back with the rest of the family for lunch, the moment's over and I know she doesn't want to talk about it again. She jokes about the "near miss" with me and her younger sister later. But I know her and I know she heard me, she hasn't forgotten what I said.

--

I'm staring down a long stretch of highway. I'm on my way back home with my family and I chose to do most of the driving because I had tried to read and couldn't. I had tried to listen to music and couldn't.

I couldn't save her from herself this time. I feel like a hypocrite. How could I, who doesn't believe in using contraception, all but put the pill in her hand myself? Should I have done something different? Did I say the right thing? Did I do the right thing?

That morning, I had seen a scared little girl. Later that night she would suggest I read Fifty Shades of Grey and find myself a man, hollow, empty words.

I just hadn't been able to leave her. I couldn't let her go in by herself. I felt, somehow, that running away from this would be worse than going with her. But I'm left with doubts; did I hurt You, Jesus? 

The ride home gives me time to think. Maybe it was my overactive imagination, but when I'd looked at the pill, so plain and small, I'd felt a darkness. The guide it came with said in bold, "NOT AN ABORTION PILL." She had read it out loud, reassuring herself, telling me.

But I couldn't stop thinking.What if there had been a baby? A tiny, undeveloped, unknown, little bud of a life, and I sat there and watched as all that was swept away. I thought I might be sick.

Because no matter what my mind said, the lines I'd heard from our culture, I knew it was wrong and it wasn't love and if I had taken part in something which ended a life, no matter how small and invisible to all but its Maker, I don't know how I could live with that.

I've seen love, true, God-given love, bright as the morning sun and pure as gold, and I've heard the truth, clearer and sharper than silver, and goodness, like a crystal light - and this wasn't it.

I had never felt the weight of my broken-ness, our broken-ness, like I did then.

We broke it, sex which was supposed to be pure and holy and is sometimes still. But we broke it and made a mess of it and this is what's left.

I've never, ever needed Jesus more.