Holiness, mission and love

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Fr. John Franck, A.A., writes the introduction to each issue of Living with Christ, the booklet I use in my daily prayer. This month, he wrote:

The beginning of a new year is a graced moment to examine our discipleship. Have we truly placed Christ at the center of our lives? Too often, we drift into secular rhythms—productivity, self-aggrandizement, entertainment—losing the sense that our lives are fundamentally about holiness, mission and love.

How to Read a Book by Monica Wood was my book club’s choice for January. The three main characters are Harriett, a retired schoolteacher who facilitates a book club at a women’s prison, Frank, a handyman at a local bookstore and Violet, one of the women in the book club.

Harriett came to mind as I read Fr. Franck’s reflection because her volunteer work at the prison spoke to me of holiness, mission and love. Her story also reminds me of Mother Teresa’s saying, “do small things with great love.”

As Father Franck noted, our culture tends to focus on productivity, self-aggrandizement, entertainment, while Harriett is doing the opposite. She is spending time with people who are out of the public eye, doing something for which she will get no credit and even spending her own money on books. She is doing a small thing for a small group of people.

She is not motivated by productivity but rather is motivated by a desire to help people who are invisible to society. She needs no publicity and she does not share what she is doing on any social media platforms. There is no camera following her, no one asking for an interview. She is one woman, doing one good work.

Contrast this behavior to people we hear and see every day who are constantly trying to be in front of an audience, a microphone or a camera (even if they have to take their own pictures), people who self-identify as “influencers” and “thought leaders.” Self-aggrandizement is on full view in our society. Amassing large numbers of “followers” seems to be the goal.

I am fortunate to have friends who continually model holiness, mission and love. They inspire me by their examples of holding babies in the hospital NICU, serving meals in soup kitchens and supporting refugees. They remind me of the importance of doing small things with great love and being focused on holiness, mission and love.

I fear people have started to believe that their online life is all they need. I am not saying relationships cannot develop online; we all know they can.

I am suggesting, though, that you cannot hold an infant or serve a meal online. You cannot have the kind of interactions Harriett does with the women in the prison book club.

To do that, we must leave our screens and seek out people who live different lives from our own.

At the beginning of this New Year, perhaps we are being invited to drift away from screentime toward face-to-face interactions.

Yes, but…

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A friend often calls to vent about a relative or a work situation. She asks my advice, which is usually along the lines of, “let it go,” “stay in your lane” or “adjust your expectations,” to which she usually responds, “Yes, but….”

I am not sure why she asks what I think because she seems so certain in her chosen course of action.

Occasionally, though, she will call to tell me she followed my advice, which always surprises me. “You think I don’t listen,” she says, “but I do.”

She reminds me of the Parable of the Two Sons (Matthew 21:28-32), where a father asks one son to go work in the vineyard, and the son says “no” but then changes his mind and goes. The father asks a second son, who says “yes” and then does not go.

The first son is the one who did the father’s bidding, and the takeaway is that what we do is more important than what we say.

We have a variety of expressions related to this behavior:

Actions speak louder than words

Talk is cheap

Talk the talk and walk the walk (or walk the talk)

Practice what you preach

You get the idea.

I am not above a “yes, but…” of my own, and when I hear those two words come out of my mouth, I know I am caught up in some kind of denial or resistance. It is a case of wanting what I want and not being willing to look at something from a different perspective. My “yes, but…” means “I can see what you are saying is valid, but I want to….”

The “but” negates the first part of the sentence.

As in the Parable of the Two Sons, the important thing is to be consistent in our speech and actions, or as Matthew puts it: “Let your ‘yes’ mean ‘yes’ and your ‘no’ mean ‘no’” (Matthew 5:37).

Saying “no” can be difficult because we may not want to disappoint another or we may want to protect an image of ourselves. We may like to think of ourselves as cooperative and agreeable, so we say “yes” when we mean “no” just so the person asking something of us perceives us as helpful.

I remember learning that “no is a complete sentence,” although it took me years to believe it (and tons of practice). I went from saying “yes” and meaning “no” to saying “let me think about that” and finally to “no.”

I have always liked the “yes, and” of improvisational comedy, and I have tried to replace my “yes, but” with “yes, and.” If nothing else, it forces me to pause and consider what came before the “but.”

As I enter this new year desiring to have my heart reshaped into a move loving, compassionate, forgiving heart, I will pay more attention to when I am saying “yes, but” and strive to let my “yes” mean “yes” and my “no” mean “no.” Words and consistency matter.

Never have I ever

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While recuperating from foot surgery this fall, I discovered teen coming-of-age/romance television shows like XO Kitty and Never Have I Ever. I don’t watch that much television, so I was unaware of this genre, but it was perfect for a period of recovery, and these teen shows gave me insight into the lives of today’s teens (as much as Father Knows Best and Leave it to Beaver did when I was a kid).

Never have I ever is a game played by the kids in this television show, a game I have never played or even heard of before watching the show. It is a kind of ice-breaker/getting-to-know-you party game where people reveal things they have or have not done in their lives.

One version of the game I saw online has a tagline, “The game of poor life decisions.” Ok, so I have been playing this game most of my life, but just never had a name for it.

Anyway, on a recent walk through my neighborhood, I saw something that made me say out loud, “never have I ever…seen a white squirrel.”

But there it was.

A little googling revealed that there are two kinds of white squirrels, one with pink eyes and one with black eyes. My squirrel had black eyes. There is actually an institute that counts these squirrels, and from what I can see, white squirrels are rather rare in Michigan.

Since seeing this squirrel, I have wondered what other rare things I may be passing by every day without even noticing, and I decided to start paying more attention to my surroundings. Who knows how many times I may get to say “never have I ever…” if I pay more attention and notice what I notice.

Happy New Year.

Create a space

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On Christmas Eve at my sister’s home, I watched her four grandchildren unwrap piles of gifts. Later, sitting with my grandniece as she showed me her new toys, I wondered aloud where Santa would be able to put his presents once she got all of these back to her house. She thought for a moment and then turned to her mother and said, “Mama, maybe we can donate some of my toys.”

How wise, I thought, that a child not yet four years old understands that we need to clear out the old to make room for the new.

Conform my heart is my prayer for the coming year. For that to happen, I need to clear out the old to create a space for the new. I need to remove what keeps me bound to my past to make room for a different future.

That means letting go of my fears, anxieties and painful memories. It means letting go of my desire to control. It means adjusting expectations—of myself and others. It means opening myself to seeing things in new ways and moving against my resistance.

Not an easy task.

Sometimes the challenge can be simple, like donating coats I haven’t worn in years.

Other times, though, I am invited to dig deeper, to do an honest inventory of what keeps me unfree.

I prayed, conform my heart, and this is what came to mind:

When I moved to Michigan almost thirteen years ago, I was grateful that there was a church in my neighborhood. I got involved as a lector and Eucharistic minister, and I participated in programs throughout the year. It was a good fit for me—until then there was a financial discrepancy with my annual donations which the pastor was unable to resolve.

At about the same time, the pastor’s health began to fail. He became unsteady on his feet and would not use a cane or walker. He would not even use the handrail to climb the steps to the altar, and I had seen him fall more than once.

I started to keep my eyes closed whenever the pastor was moving around because I was so anxious about his falling. He is so stubborn, I thought.

At some point, I decided to leave and attend Mass elsewhere.

What I gained by going to a different church was comfort. What I lost was a sense of community and active participation.

Now, when I think of this situation, I can see how I am being stubborn.

Letting go of my need for comfort and returning to my old parish would be a leap. When I consider it, I feel like the prodigal son who went looking for greener pastures and sheepishly returns home when he faces his poverty. Can I swallow my pride and return to my home parish to regain a sense of community and participation?

Letting go, changing expectations, accepting what is…all create space. I will try to follow my grandniece’s lead.

Be like John

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I have been thinking about families this Advent, perhaps because one of my Advent reflection books is focused on John the Baptist. I keep thinking of John in relation to his cousin, Jesus.

John says, I am not worthy to carry (or untie) his sandals (Luke 3:16), and I wonder how many of us have ever been that humble toward another family member.

I am reminded of a work colleague who did the same job I was doing—connecting people who have disabilities with community members for one-to-one advocacy relationships. It was grass-roots work, no fame or publicity, just meeting people who were isolated and needed someone to get to know them and speak on their behalf. And then recruiting someone from the local community to step up to the role of advocate.

At the same time she was doing this behind-the-scenes work, her brother was running for president of the United States.

I thought of what it might be like to live in the shadow of a sibling who had such a high profile.

I imagine, though, that it is one’s family that keeps someone with a high-profile life grounded and somehow tethered to reality (all that fawning and sucking up that happens with politicians and wealthy people might lead one to believe the hype).

I wonder if her brother ever humbled himself enough to admire the significant work she was doing. Did he ever feel unworthy to carry her sandals?

I have also known people who have family members who are or have been in prison. The response to that kind of family update is generally the opposite kind of WOW one gets if one’s brother is running for president.

And in between, are all kinds of other family scenarios. There are often sibling rivalries and jealousies (“Mom likes me best,” kind of things), fallouts over money or property (especially inheritances) and family businesses that can create friction. Alcoholism and mental health issues often play havoc on family harmony.

We usually don’t understand what motivates another family member’s unhealthy behavior or actions.

In my family, we never talked about anything significant, so I never told my parents or siblings how my ex-husband treated me, and I didn’t talk about having been raped until a few years ago. (It wasn’t a secret, and most of my friends knew, but my family had no platform for open discussion.)

We might not know what event(s) caused someone to stay away from family or to hold grudges or refuse to forgive.

As we gather with our families over the holidays, I suggest adopting John’s attitude of humility and his focus on walking his own path. He knew what God called him to do, and he did it. He knew he was not the messiah, and he seemed content with his role.

Realistic expectations, accepting people for who they are, letting go of past hurts, being content with our own lives and staying in our own lanes—a recipe for a tranquil holiday.

A rich tapestry

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Bishop Benoit Gschwind, A.A. wrote in the Living with Christ missalette: “In the spirit of the family, another idea dear to Augustine…to transform the whole world into one family where diversity becomes richness.”

That line caused me to pause and reflect on my own family, on our diversity and where that diversity has become a richness.

At Mass on December 17, we hear the genealogy of Jesus, whose family contained some very interesting characters, including King David, who had Uriah the Hittite murdered to cover up David’s affair with Uriah’s wife (who had become pregnant). David first tried to rectify the situation by forcing Uriah to sleep with his wife to make it look like the child she carried was his, but Uriah did not cooperate, so David had him killed.

How would you like to have that person in your family tree?

It turns out, my own family has its own cast of colorful characters.

My grandparents all came to the United States from Poland a little over a hundred years ago. Their children mostly married other people of Polish descent. The next generation (mine) diversified a bit in marrying people from other ethnicities, and the next generation diversified a bit more, making my extended family ethnically and racially diverse.

God-family-Advent — Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash

My parents’ generation had some colorful characters in terms of people who liked to party (my dad made homemade hooch in our basement), but the person who stands out in memory was an uncle who spent time at a state institution getting electric shock treatments after setting his house on fire.

In my generation, one of my cousins lived in a “bridge community.” He told me this when I was living in a l’Arche community, where I lived with people who had disabilities. Curious, I asked, “What is a bridge community?” He explained that he lived under a bridge.

In the next generation, one cousin’s son spent most of his adult life in prison, mainly, I think, for car thefts and then thwarted prison escapes.

We have some colorful characters in our family tree.

If another family member were writing this, I might be portrayed as a “colorful character” because of my non-linear life. In addition to living in l’Arche, I also lived in a Mennonite community, and my work resume was once called a “patchwork quilt” by a prospective employer (who loved quilts and hired me).

I lived away from my family for most of my adult life and attended family functions alone, which led to speculation (by some) that I was gay. At thirty-nine, I attended a family wedding with my then-boyfriend, who happened to be eighteen years my junior. Oh, yes, I can be a character.

It can be easy to judge other families’ misfits and miscreants, and more difficult to acknowledge those same characters in our own families. It requires humility to acknowledge our own flawed family tree.

And, just as in Jesus’ family, God uses all those colorful characters to create a rich tapestry.

It is never too late

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And the angel said to her “The Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of the Most High will overshadow you….For nothing will be impossible for God” (Luke 1:35-37).

With these words from an angel, Mary’s life changed forever. She was just a young woman when this event occurred, and we know how her story turned out. But when I read this verse the other day, I wondered about the rest of us.

What would be different if an angel appeared to us when we were young teens and told us that the Holy Spirit would come upon us and the power of the Most High overshadow us. What if we heard the angel say that nothing will be impossible for God.

I recently read David Grohl’s memoir The Storyteller. I don’t remember who recommended this book to me or why, but it was on my Goodreads “to read” shelf and it was available at the library, so I read it.

Keep in mind that I had never heard of David Grohl before, nor was I familiar with his bands or music. (Foo Fighters? That is the name of a band? Did they mean to say, “food fighters,” which would make a little more sense for teenage boys).

Anyway, David Grohl was one of those kids who was not interested in school and eventually dropped out to join a band—and then went on to fame and fortune.

One piece of wisdom from the book that has stayed with me is that Grohl fell in love with drumming when he was just twelve or thirteen. Since he didn’t have real drums, he would bang his bed pillow with sticks, so it seems the attraction to drumming wasn’t as much about the sound one would get from a real drum, but more about the action of drumming that drew him in.

From his experience, he believes we all have a passion that reveals itself around that age. Some of us follow that passion, no matter how unlikely it seems for a career path, and others of us tamp it down or perhaps turn the passion into a hobby.

I wondered if that is true, and I have asked a number of people if they remember a passion they had from their pre- to early teens and if that passion still lives with them. Most say they don’t remember.

I learned to sew and bake when I was that age. I don’t know if I would call either a passion, but I loved both as much as I loved reading. My three “passions” from that time, and all things I still do.

Is it possible that those activities revealed a passion for creativity. Was a career path hidden in one of those activities?

How about you? Did you have a passion for something when you were twelve or thirteen? Did you pursue it? Or put it on the shelf?

It is never too late for God to do something new.

Mary and John invite me to journey with them

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Recently, I have been having dreams of being in foreign places. I am not scared in these dreams, just puzzled in a “how did I end up here?” kind of way.

In one dream, while on a river cruise in France, I got on the wrong boat and ended up in Greece. In another, I was in India and got on a train that took me to away from my group. Greece and India are two places that are completely foreign to me. Boats and trains, unfamiliar locations, encountering new people and cultures—what are these dreams saying to me?

God-Advent-change — Image by danimeili from Pixabay

I think that these are great Advent dreams because Advent calls us to be in a place that feels unfamiliar. Advent is about change—whether it is the way Mary’s life is changing because of having a baby or the repentance John the Baptist calls us to embrace. Both of these Advent people remind us that the familiar is passing away and something new is happening, but we don’t know quite what it will be.

Holiday traditions can lull us into believing that everything is ok just the way it is, but Advent invites us to get a different perspective, to look deeper. In Advent, God shakes things up and asks us to join in.

Mary is waiting for her baby to be born, and she invites me to wait with her, anticipating something life changing. What might that be for me?

What kind of repentance is John the Baptist calling me to? Do I need to atone for something? Is there something in my life I need to walk away from?

Even though I am firmly in the last third of my life (I am 74 years old), I believe God is still inviting me to enter the mystery of Advent and to anticipate something new. Sometimes, it is about hearing or seeing something new, and other times, it is about hearing or seeing something old in a new way.

Whichever, this Advent I am feeling invited to be open to the mysteries God is revealing in a new way, to pay attention to how God is picking up the fragments of my life and upcycling them into something that will serve me on this leg of my journey.

My dreams tell me that I am in a foreign place. Advent invites me to wait there for what God is revealing.

In Isaiah 43:18-19, we hear, “Forget the things of the past. See, I am doing something new.”

Throughout our lives, God continually invites us to let go of the past and be ready to receive something new.

What new things is God inviting me to this Advent?

Conform my heart

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At the beginning of the new liturgical year, a word or phrase usually comes to me in prayer, a sort of theme for the new year.

Someone recently asked how I envision heaven, a question I am not very comfortable with because I am not very comfortable with abstract ideas—and what could be more abstract than heaven. I have no idea what heaven looks like and what life will be like after death.

What I believe, though, is that our God is a God of infinite, unconditional love, and when we die, we are transformed into pure light and unconditional love. We return to God whole, redeemed, restored.

While I pondered this transformation into pure light and unconditional love at the time of death, it occurred to me that I could be more intentional in practicing being pure light and unconditional love now. I know I will fail, but it is the trying that matters.

Conform my heart, I prayed.

I have read of saints who prayed to live the love of the heart of Jesus. I have tried to imagine what it would be like to be as compassionate as Jesus, as accepting and non-judgmental—to actually replace my heart with the heart of Jesus. It is challenging because my heart has been broken so many times and I can sometimes live more out of that brokenness than Jesus’ healing love.

God-love-prayer — The Christ of the Breadlines, woodcut by Fritz Eichenberg

A prayer in my missalette last week (on a Mary feast) reflected on the heart of Mary:

“…firm in its attachments and of unshakable loyalty,
an affectionate heart which radiates a discreet tenderness and which is open,
a pure heart which lives in the flesh without being burdened by it,
a generous heart, quick in forgetting its hurts and always ready to forgive,
a considerate heart which hides a great deal of love in the smallest details,
in the most humble service, 
a magnanimous heart which rejoices in other's triumphs and shares in their sorrows,
a heart which condemns no one,
and does not tire of being confided to, 
a heart taken up by Christ,
totally given to His infinite love. Amen."

The adjectives at the beginning of the prayer are aspirational for me. I desire to be affectionate, generous, considerate, etc. Then I got to the words, “…which condemns no one and does not tire of being confided to…” and I paused.

I am someone to whom people often say, “I have never told anyone this before,” before telling me some deep, dark secret. I used to feel burdened by these secrets, as if there was an expectation that I do something about them. I have learned over the years, though, that there is a gift in receiving the burdens others carry, and all I need to do is receive these secrets and carry them in my heart. These confidences shape my heart.

Conform my heart, I pray, so that I will grow into pure light and unconditional love—my prayer theme for the coming year.

Leaning into the cycles of life

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This time of year is a visual reminder of letting go. Most of the trees have lost their leaves, plants are mostly dead and daylight hours continue to shrink. It is a good time to cocoon and to reflect on what I am being invited to let go.

The idea of “be the tree” comes to mind—to sway with the wind and to drop my leaves in a natural cycle of living and dying, to accept the natural changes that come with each season of the year, each season of life.

God-vulnerability-letting go — Photo by Autumn Mott Rodeheaver on Unsplash

Swaying with the wind does not come natural to me. I tend to stand firm, to resist. Sometimes, my resistance has led to brokenness—times when I let my pride lead me or when I didn’t forgive, when I dug my heels in and refused to bend.

But the invitation is always there. Be flexible. Be open to change. Let go of the past. Welcome the next season.

When I can loosen my tight grip, I am able to lean into loss, to remember that all things are passing away. I can accept what has been and see what has been transformed into gratitude. I can see that nothing is wasted, that everything matters.

Loosening my grip allows me to expand my view, to get a different perspective, to reframe a situation, and letting go creates an open space to see what was and what can be. Gratitude can move into that open space, gratitude for all that was and gratitude for all that can be.

In my faith tradition, we begin a new year on the First Sunday of Advent, so the trees dropping their leaves and the hours of daylight shrinking correspond to the end of another year. Endings and beginnings are part of the cycle—be the tree, I tell myself. Let go. Lean into the cycles of life and death and new life.

Live each day in gratitude for what has been, what is and what will be. Then, like the tree, I will be rooted in reality. Then, I will be freed from the fear of losing what I love because I will know for certain that everything passes away, and I also know that nothing is wasted and everything can be transformed.

Madeline Bialecki

On a journey

Holiness, mission and love

Yes, but…

Never have I ever

Create a space

Be like John

A rich tapestry

It is never too late

Mary and John invite me to journey with them

Conform my heart

Leaning into the cycles of life