Veni Si Amas--- A Poem

My day has been filled with lots of poetry, so I might as well fill in with a little more. Sometimes I write poetry. I don't claim to be highly original, inspiring, or schooled in the art of meter, but yes, sometimes I write poetry.

This poem is called "Veni Si Amas", it is about the chapel at a convent I visited two summers ago. 'Veni Si Amas' is Latin for 'Come if you Love' and it is written on the gates to the convent grounds.

Enjoy.

Veni Si Amas

If Wisdom had a voice,

it would sound like the old pipe organ upstairs,

The rich and candid sound,

 Is unmistakable,

and carries with it

the history of all its year

with every note,

Easter Vigil,

Christmas Mass,

and every Sunday in between.

And even now, in all the stillness

as I sit on a tired-out pew near the back of the sanctuary

if I listen hard enough,

I can swear I hear organ notes

from two years ago

still chasing each other

through the nooks and crannies

of the convent chapel

to remind the weathered stone

that some things,

 never change.

The  stained glass window

fractures the late afternoon light

into water color paint

 spilled on the marble floor

that is sure enough of itself

that it doesn't need to mix

to make new color.

Dust motes swirl

in the painted light

glittering bits of broken stars

only visible

during select times of

day.

The upholstery  on the kneelers

is the same wet-tree- bark brown  as the robes

that the statue of St. Francis

is wearing on the left side of the altar

and though the Sisters here are Franciscan,

their habits are the color of

the sky when the sun has risen

but is not yet visible above the housetops.

A tranquil grey

not yet giving way to blue.

In front of me, and to the left

sits a little nun

all clothed in pre-dawn sky

her veil is black though,

the color her habit would be

a few hours closer to midnight.

I was told that if you live in the convent

for long enough,

even though all of the sisters look the same

from the back,

you can tell who is who

by the way the habit clings

or the veil falls

or the shoes squeak

or the shoulders spread,

or the way hands clasp in prayer

but as I have yet to inherit this skill

the nun in front of me

remains beautifully

anonymous.

And we are in separate worlds right now,

she and I.

I am amongst the weathered stone.

And brown kneelers,

and anticipation of dishes to wash later.

She is  in the world, and not of it,

in a place no one else can touch

(maybe there are clouds the color of her habit there)

where she speaks to the God she married.

She has a prayer book sitting next to her

all dog ears

and colored ribbons

musty pages that can't help but whisper when they turn

small print

and a spine that cracks

almost as much as my own.

The bottoms of her shoes are scuffed.

Mostly the toes

and not the heels.

Either she is light on her feet

or she spends a lot of time

crouching

next to the little children

at the Sister's school.

She is young.

Her hands are unwrinkled

as they clasp at her rosary beads.

Though her face remains hidden,

I can hear the whisper of a breath

that sneaks through her lips

at every "Glory Be".

Her posture is one of reverence

head bowed

hands clasped,

back straight.

Her posture is one of concentration

shoulders clenched

feet still.

The very existence

of such sisters:

their laughs far softer than the pipe organ,

their cooking,

their imperfect and crooked-toothed smiles,

their twilight games of frisbee on the front lawn,

their reverence and concentration

poured into every,

single

mandatory afternoon prayer

communicate a higher power to me,

far better than any long-winded

explanation of the Divinity of Christ.

The very lives they live

communicate cosmic secrets

far removed from our ordinary days

of five o'clock traffic

and coupons for milk.

As I watch

even the most elderly nun

lower herself carefully,

(like someone setting a final domino

in its place in a long chain)

to genuflect before the tabernacle

and a God she is sure is there,

I think:

if watching that

display of love,

so genuinely felt,

even after all of these years

isn't enough to make you

believe in God

maybe nothing ever will.

On Letting Jesus Move Into Your House

It's only taken me about twenty years, but recently, and finally, I've noticed a trend in my life. I'm a coward. In more ways than one, but particularly in my relationship with Jesus.
I'm always afraid to go deeper. I'm always afraid to give Him more.
Its been a constant struggle.
I used to think that the more I gave Jesus the more limitations I had. That in order to be holy, I would have to morph into a made-up, over-exaggerated "cookie-cutter" version of Catholicism and I'd have to wear long jean skirts and give up makeup and only watch G-rated movies or something.(I know. I used to be dumb).

I was afraid of the change that giving Jesus everything would bring. I was afraid that others would notice the change and not want to be around me. That my friends wouldn't recognize me.
For a while in the early parts of my life, I was a closet-Catholic. I didn't want to admit how much God was a part of my life, how much He was changing me. But what I didn't realize then, was that one can't have a powerful encounter with God and NOT change. You have to change. Whether or not you feel the effects of the change immediately, a change happens. Deep within your soul. Something has to shift.
Such an experience happened to me when I was seventeen. After experiencing God in a powerful time of Eucharistic adoration like I had never experienced Him before, I was reminded of the quote Frodo says at the end of The Return of the King after he, at long last, finally gets to return to the Shire.

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back?"

Indeed, what I came to realize was that there was no going back. Once you experience God, nothing else than living for Him will satisfy. Funny how that works.

Because I'd spend the majority of my life until that point going deeper in my faith-life in cautious increments and half-steps, I surprised myself when, without consulting anyone about my decision, I signed up for an 11 day retreat at a convent half-way across the country.

As I stepped onto the plane, I had a distinct feeling that my life was about to change again. Because surely, I would encounter God here. And surely that meant I would have to change.

During the retreat we had scheduled in approximately a day and a half of silent prayer. Half-way through the first day, the Sister who was running the retreat would take each of us into her office and chat with us, asking how our prayer was going, and how our heart was faring.

It was then that this very wise and beautiful Sister gave me the best analogy for my relationship with Jesus that I had ever heard. Now, after further reflection, I have expanded and dramatized the metaphor to what I'm writing now. Imagine this:

You have a house. You're really sucky at managing your finances because, lets face it, you're not a real adult yet and that crap is scary. So you realize in order to make ends meet, you have to rent out the upper-floor of your house. There's a full bathroom up there, a bedroom, and besides the need to share a kitchen, you might hardly ever have to interact with the person renting the upper part of your house, so as long as they're not totally crazy, it should be good, right? So you put an add in the paper and hope for the best. The next day you get a knock on the door.
It's Jesus.
Okay. You know Him, he seems like he'd make a solid roommate so you give Him a tour. When the tour is over and you're about to tell Him how much the rooms upstairs cost, He looks at you and says:

"This house is nice. I like it. I'll move in at once."
"Well, you don't get the whole house," you say, sort of put off. "You just get upstairs."
"Oh, but I really like the whole house. I'd really like to move in and share the whole house with you."
"Well, I'm sorry," you say. "But the upstairs is all you get."
"Alright," Jesus says, "I'll come back tomorrow."

You really like Jesus. The two of you have been friends for a while. But you're not sure about being roommates. Because if that happened, you'd probably see Him all the time. And He'd want to spend a lot of time with you. And He'd probably end up meeting all of your friends. And maybe if you were watching a movie in the living room and He didn't like it, he might ask you to change it. And He'd probably end up knowing all about your life if you live together.

No, you think. Its better that you just stay friends. Living together might be pushing it.
Jesus comes back the next day and the process repeats. He's still being stubborn. He wants to whole house. You stubbornly tell him no. But there are no other takers on the rooms upstairs. And you really are pretty broke. Eventually desperation kicks in, and you finally agree to let Jesus move in. To the whole house. You're scared at first, but Jesus turns out to be a pretty good roommate. He comes in, not even judging how much of a mess your house is and helps you clean up. He fixes the broken faucet in the kitchen and He turns out to make your whole life a lot better. You guys stay up way too late talking all the time and if you go a whole day without seeing Him, you miss Him. You begin to wonder why you weren't house-mates from the beginning.

Ok. That analogy is slightly whimsical and may seem silly. But I've been meditating on it for a few months now, and I realize its validity.
I had been confining Jesus to the upper room for months. He wanted the whole house. Heck, upon further reflection it seemed like I hadn't even let Jesus in the door. He was still waiting on the porch.

It was then that I realized I need to let Him in. By talking to Him about everything. The good and the bad. My successes and my failures. By talking to Him daily. By letting Him be apart of every mundane daily task. By striving to live with virtue and to clean up my own messes, but asking Him to help me when I needed it, instead of trying to hide it all from Him.

It's a process, friends. It is such a process. To let Him in. Let Him have His say. Let Him love me. Let Him see every part of my house. Even the things I shove under the rug.
It is a process.
But thanks to that retreat. Thanks to that analogy.
Jesus may still be getting unpacked, but He is here to stay.
Take the whole house, Lord. Make it beautiful. Let us make a home together.

Omnia Gratia Sunt. Allelujah.

Reflections on Being a Knight of the Realm

When I was a child, I was fed on a steady diet of only the best literature. I constantly immersed myself in gallant tales of swashbuckling, of saving the world, of good versus evil, of magical realms, and near death-escapes. And because of such, I and my equally imaginative friends, would disappear into the woods for long hours pretending to be knights, and wizards, and fairies, and stage epic combat and daring quests and return just before sundown with mud on our jeans and flower crowns in our hair. While other kids our age were moving onto nail painting parties and gossiping about boys-- we were too busy saving the realm from invading goblins.

                The days I spent imagining with my friends are perhaps my fondest memories of childhood. When picturing my future life, I desired not a boring office job or a life of dreary rush hour traffic and coupons for milk--- I wanted adventure. I wanted to do something that mattered. I wanted to be different. Special. While everyone else filled their heads with, (what seemed to me) terrible blasé and unambitious goals--- I longed to be set apart. To be a hero.

                As a child I longed not so much for the glory of a battlefield, nor for super powers that allowed me to perform more daring deeds than any mortal, but I was longing for purpose. For a higher calling. For the ability to surmount great trials and even greater odds. I was longing to give my life to the greater good. To something bigger.

                While I thought I longed for heroic deeds to later be penned down in verse, while I thought I wanted dangerous quests to be bragged about in time honored tales, what I really longed for was the adventure that only a life lived with Christ can provide.

                And indeed, as St. Pope John Paul the Great said before me--- life with Christ is a great adventure.

            

             

      About a year ago, before my freshman year of college, I went to visit a group of religious sisters for a discernment retreat. While I and the other discerners were there, we came in close contact with the poor and prayed for everyone we met and talked and talked about practical, needed, and thrilling ways to serve our fellow men daily on Earth. In short, while there on that brief retreat, I felt far more purpose and more fulfillment than I had in a very, very long time. My childhood dreams of doing something important and heroic seemed to come pouring back to me and finally seemed possible amidst so many other eager disciples of Christ. My childhood fantasies of emptying myself out to serve a higher cause seemed like a reality.

                Now, as anyone else who is discerning religious life can probably identify with, shortly after my returning from that retreat, I experienced a sort of "Narnia Syndrome" where I felt rather jolted and cheated by the ordinariness of everyday life. I'd returned from a sort of haven, a community of my fellow warriors of the Kingdom to the averageness of society where no one else seemed to care for much else than the daily office grind, taxes, and what's for dinner.

                It was disheartening. And all the fervor and sureness I had accumulated from my "retreat high" seemed to evaporate before my eyes. Soon, I was on my way to college, and even the closeness I'd felt with Jesus also seemed to slip away. Surrounded by classmates who were so much better at doing the "average college kid" thing than me, I felt thoroughly out of place and even a bit arrogant, as if the thrum of unremarkable average living was now suddenly below me.

               

              It was in February of my freshman year when my spiritual director and friend, a very sage and holy priest, made a surprise trip up to my college to visit me. I related my frustration to him over coffee and pancakes and expressed how cheated and alone I felt, my life suddenly filled with papers and late nights in the library in an effort to earn a degree that I'm not sure I even wanted anymore. As I related all of this to my ever-patient confidant, he looked at me and said:

                "But Grace, have you forgotten your purpose?"

                I didn't recall being handed an ancient scroll that laid out a finely detailed quest along with my admissions packet, so I looked at him, confused.

                "Your name is Grace," he said. "So do what your namesake suggests. It is your duty as a Christian to win grace for others who may not be able to win it for themselves. Through your prayer. Through your love. Through your presence here. Win them grace."

                It was then that a lot clicked into place for me. It was then that I experienced a resurgence of the purpose I had first tasted on that retreat.

                As I sat in the adoration chapel after my spiritual director had left, I realized that though we do not necessarily get to pick our crosses, our situation in life, or even the tasks that are handed to us--- at least we can unite them all, the good, and the bad, to Christ's higher mission of the salvation of souls. While I had been wallowing in  shallow self-pity and misery, I could have realized that Christ had not abandoned me, nor had He taken away my right to do beautiful things out of love for Him. Instead, He had simply given me new venue in which to enact my faith. Offering Christ my long hours spent in the library and my simple, daily interactions with my peers may not be as exciting as leading an army into battle like Joan of Arc, or as heroic as kissing the homeless like Mother Theresa. But it is necessary. Not only for the salvation of souls but for the salvation of my soul. By being obedient to Christ's plan for my life, whether it be my ideal situation or not, by trusting that my presence where He guides me is necessary, I grow closer to Him and my soul is humbled and gladdened to be a part of His mystery.

                If I could be another Christ for my brothers and sisters, even just for a moment.

                Well. All of the humdrum living of "ordinary life" would be worth it.

               

        As Catholic speaker Jimmy Mitchell says " to live your life in any other way [than for the salvation of souls] will inevitably bore the crap out of you. Once you realize that this life is really all about the next life, a lot of things begin fading to grey."

                But as I realized, on that February mid-afternoon, as a Catholic Christian, I have the ability to partake in Christ's mission even amidst the most ordinary tasks.

                It was then that I realized that Christ has fulfilled my childhood dreams and longings to be a part of a dangerous, arduous, and glorious adventure. I am like Cinderella, pulled from ashes of a fireplace but made to dance with a Prince. I am  a lowly peasant who becomes a Knight of the Realm. I am a trained warrior, serving under the banner of Love. I am a damsel in need of saving, yet made to marry a King. In my early years, my soul longed for adventure-- and oh how He provided.  He has made all of us heirs to the Kingdom in the most beautiful way possible. Since I am His, I am everything I need to be.

                And though the work and quests may not always feel so glamorous, there has never been anything more honorable than doing what He bids and doing it well.

                Our God is generous with us. He has fulfilled all of my deepest desires for meaning. And my story and life with Him is far from over, whatever quest he has destined me for next.

                I only hope to bear myself honorably as I, a Knight of the Kingdom to come, charge under the banner of Love for a King far mightier than I. I only hope to bring Him glory.  

                There are greater things yet to come.

                

                Omnia Gratia Sunt. Alleluia.

For more information on winning grace for others, especially through total consecration to Christ through the Blessed Virgin Mary, click here.