A Silent Advent

Tonight, my family decided to go for a Costco run while my sister was at basketball practice. I decided to tag along, even though I had no real reason to. After getting hit with some serious carsickness, I found myself regretting the trip, especially when after we went to Costco, I was faced with waiting in the St. Rose parking lot for 25 minutes for her practice to be over. As we pulled into the parking lot, the Holy Spirit struck, and I hopped out of the car and headed inside the church. After all, sitting in my favorite church for 25 minutes was way better than sitting in the car while my grandparents listened to the news on the radio.

Delighted to have the church to myself for the first time ever, I hurried all the way to the front and plopped myself down to adore my Lord and Savior.

Then I realized something. I have never heard St. Rose silent before. In all my years of going to St. Rose (too many for me to even begin to count), I've never heard it silent.

Three months ago, I would have reveled in that silence. But now? Now it made me shift uncomfortably in my seat and lean over to check the time. Still 20 minutes to go. Shoot.

It seems paradoxical, but sometimes silence is deafening.

I never used to feel that way about silence. It used to be something I craved, something I tried to cultivate in my every day life, something that I would jealously safeguard. When did silence become so uncomfortable for me, something to be avoided at all costs?

Sitting there in my favorite church, secretly hoping that someone, anyone, would walk in, I found my answer.

Silence became a hostile environment for me when it stopped being the vehicle for me to hear the voice of God.

At some point in the last four months, silence became a reminder of the chasm that seems to exist between myself and God.

Silence, rather than giving me the opportunity to quiet my soul so that I can hear His voice, has now become a deafening, crushing sensation that causes me to do everything I can to make noise so that I don't have to face a truth that makes me almost sick to admit.

I no longer hear the voice of God. I'm no longer in tune with it. Or He's no longer speaking.

Desolation, folks. It's not pretty.

But you know what? It's advent. And advent gives me hope. 400 years passed between the time that the last prophet spoke in the Old Testament and the time that Christ was born to us on a silent night. 400 years of silence, of desolation. For 400 years, the Israelites felt the paradox that comes with silence. I wasn't there, but after 400 years, I'm willing to bet that the Israelites were beginning to feel a little hopeless.

Tonight, after 25 minutes of deafening, crushing, piercing silence, I realized that when I'm forced to face the silence, I'm assaulted by the fear that God will not come, that He will not speak, that He will forevermore remain silent.

It's been four months and I'm barely holding on, how can I handle 400 years?

But after 400 years of silence, God came. And He came in silence.

Silence is hard for me. 15 minutes of silence in my home parish felt like hours. I wanted to put on music, to go home and turn on the TV, to call a friend, anything that could distract me from the desperation I felt when facing the silence. I suddenly wished that I had brought a rosary to pray on or my bible to read or my breviary to pray with. Anything that could give me the chance to escape from the discomfort that silence brought my soul.

But unless I want to miss Him when He does come to me again, I can't do that.

Our Savior came to us on a silent night. The King of Heaven and Earth, who made everything we have and everyone we know, came to us in such humility that only those whose hearts were silent could recognize Him.

Is my heart silent? Is yours?

Until it is, we will not be able to recognize the many ways that our King comes to us every day.

I pray that during these last few days of advent, both you and I will be able to silence our hearts as we prepare for the coming of our Savior.

Come, Lord Jesus.

The Failure of Bathsheba

Have you ever been in a situation where you knew doing something was wrong, and you did it anyway?

Maybe that thing was your idea, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe you let yourself be convinced by others that it was okay, when in your heart of hearts you knew that it wasn't.

I've fallen into this, dear one. Too many times, I've gone along with something I knew in my heart of hearts was wrong, either because I was too afraid to speak up or because I let myself be too influenced by the opinions of others.

Are you familiar with the story of Bathsheba? She was the wife of Uriah, a man of great character. He was faithful to his God and king, unwilling to back down from his duty to his king and country even when urged to do so by his Kind, David (2 Samuel 11:6-11).

I think it's safe to assume that Bathsheba too was a woman of character. How could she not be when she was married to such a man? And yet, Bathsheba is most well known for her sin of adultery with David.

"It happened, late one afternoon, when David arose from his couch and was walking upon the roof of the king's house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful. And David sent and inquired about the woman. And one said, 'Is this not Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?' So David sent messengers, and took her; and she came to him, and he lay with her. (Now she was purifying herself from her uncleanness.) Then she returned to her house. And the woman conceived; and she sent and told David, 'I am with child.'" 2 Samuel 11:2-5

Y'all, I think that Bathsheba fell into the same trap that we so often fall into. In her heart of hearts, she had to know that her sin with David was wrong. But she let it happen anyway. She didn't speak up, either because she was too afraid of what David would do or because she let herself be influenced by his opinion. And this failure to speak out led to some serious consequences: she conceived a child, her husband was killed in David's attempt to cover it up, and the child she bore died as punishment for David's sins with her.

Now thankfully, Bathsheba's story doesn't end here. She goes on to be David's most beloved wife and gives birth to Solomon, the great king of Israel. She receives the greatest honor possible: she is considered a prefigurement of Our Lady and is mentioned in the genealogy of the Messiah.

Dear ones, our Lord had mercy on Bathsheba. Despite her failure to speak out, He showed His goodness to her. And He does the same to us: when we fall, He picks us back up. He gives us the grace to turn from our sin and cowardice and be molded into something great.

In his second letter to the Corinthians, St. Paul writes:

"Since we have the same spirit of faith as he who wrote, 'I believed, and so I spoke,' we too believe, and so we speak, knowing that he who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and bring us with you into his presence."

In this world that we live in, there are going to be many times when fear and the opinion of others will make it difficult for us to speak out. But dear ones, we must. If we won't speak the truth that this world so desperately needs, then who will?

Let us not faith as Bathsheba did. Let us have the courage to speak up, both with our words and with our actions.

Rations

I don't know about you, but I ration things. I ration my time, my energy, my money, my friendship, my chocolate (I'm a selfish hoarder when it comes to sweets). I make choices every day about how I want to spend these things. How much time can I afford to spend listening to that friend who really needs me? How much energy should I devote to this paper? How many moments should I spend sitting with the Lord in silence when I have a million other things demanding my attention? How much money should I throw in that collection box and how much should I spend going out with friends?

A couple months ago, during a Steubenville Youth Conference Holy Hour that I was working, the priest said something that struck me.

God's love does not have rations.

STOP. Rewind. Repeat.

God's love does not have rations.

There's never a day when He doesn't stop loving us. There's never a day that He says "that's enough, this is too much, I've given too much love to her, I'm gonna stop."

Isn't this our greatest fear? That if we give people the chance to see us for who we really are, they're going to realize that we're too much for them? Or that people will only see us as another thing to ration their time and love to and not someone worth giving it all for?

I don't think it's too presumptuous of me to assume that you have felt this way one time or another.

I know I have.

During those moments of adoration that night, the Lord spoke a truth to my heart that I know I'll have to continue to learn over and over again for as long as it takes for me to truly understand:

His love for me will never run out.

He doesn't have a limited amount to give to me. He doesn't have to ration His love, His energy, His patience, His forgiveness, His time. And what's more, He doesn't want to, no matter how unfaithful I might be.

In my limited ability to love, so often I have the mentality that if someone isn't returning the rations that I've given them with equal rations of their own, I don't want to ration anything else out. Well, she clearly doesn't love me as much as I love her, so I'm going to stop wasting my love and energy on her.

Can you imagine what life would be if our God had that mentality?

Thankfully, He doesn't.

No matter how little patience I have for that son or daughter of His that I just can't seem to love the way I should, His patience for how slow I am at figuring out how quickly everything will fall apart when I try to remain in control will never run out.

No matter how little energy or motivation I have for giving my all to the things that I've committed to (*cough cough* schoolwork, work, ministry, my family *cough cough*), His motivation for moving my heart to greater love for Him and His Church will never run out.

No matter how unwilling I am to forgive that person who still seems to have no awareness of the ways they deeply hurt me, His willingness to forgive the sins I commit that hurt Him and His children will never run out.

No matter how quickly I am ready to cut down on the time that I give to Him in prayer each day, the time that He spends pursuing my heart and showing me what I mean to him will never run out.

No matter how little love I show Him in the things that I do and the people that I meet, His love for me, love that took Him to a gruesome and painful death on a cross for the sake of my soul, will never run out.

Dear ones, if we rely on our own strength, it's not surprising that we need to ration. On our own, we don't have enough. But when we turn to Him, He pours out an abundance.

So the next time you feel tempted to ration something, turn to Him. Ask Him to multiply whatever it is you feel that you don't have enough of. The God of Abundance wants to give. Let Him.

What are you rationing in your life right now? What do you need an abundance of?

Faithful Waiting

A few weeks ago, the first reading for mass was from Exodus 32. I've heard this passage a thousand times (okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but only a slight one), but for some reason, this time it struck me deeply, and I've been praying with it ever since.

"When the people saw that Moses was delayed in coming down from the mountain, they gathered around Aaron and said to him, 'Come, make us a god who will go before us; as for that man Moses who brought us out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has happened to him.'" Exodus 32:1

In the past, whenever I've heard this reading, I've always shaken my head at the Israelites. Dim-witted Israelites, they're ridiculous, I think to myself. It's not that hard, geez. 

I'm convinced that it's moments like that when God laughs.

How often do I become impatient in waiting for the Lord? How often do I lose hope when He doesn't seem to be acting as quickly as I think He should? How often do I think that God is delayed from coming to me and turn to other gods to try to satisfy that impatient spirit within me?

The answer, when I'm truly honest with myself, is sobering.

I'm so quick to turn to other things when I don't think that He's moving as quickly as He should be. Sure, I don't melt all of my gold jewelry and make a giant calf out of it, but I do turn to other things. I look for satisfaction in other people, in worldly things, in my own plans for my life.

Rather than waiting on the Lord to act, I take things into my own hands. And let me tell you, it doesn't usually work out for me. God's prophet doesn't send people to slaughter me, but I end up sinking rather than walking across that water (see Mt 14:29). 

Patience is a tough one. It's difficult to wait on the Lord. It's hard to trust that He's working even when we don't feel it, even when we can't see the fruits of it. So often my limited faith leads me to believe that if I don't feel the Lord working, it's because He's delayed in coming down to me. 

What I forget is that He doesn't need to come down to me. He dwells within me. He is never delayed. His timing is perfect. 

I hope that the next time I think that the Lord is moving slower than I would like Him to, I remember this passage. And I hope that the next time you think He isn't working, you remember this post. Learn from the mistakes of the Israelites. Learn from my mistakes. Learn from your own. 

God's timing doesn't always make sense, but it is exactly what we need.

Lord, root out the other gods of my life that I've created in my impatience. Grant me a growth in that virtue of heroic patience. Help me to trust in Your perfect timing. Open my eyes to Your constant presence, so that I don't miss what You're doing now because I'm too busy waiting for You to come down from the mountain.

The Beauty of Goodbyes

Goodbyes are hard.

Tonight, I had to say goodbye to a priest who has become a father to me. This is the fourth time that I’ve had to say goodbye to him in the last year, but instead of getting easier, I find that each goodbye does more damage to my heart than the last. This goodbye is made especially hard by the fact that this time, there is no time frame for when I will see him again in this life. I don’t know when I will see him again, and so this goodbye has a finality to it that the others have not.

In two months, I have to say goodbye to another man who has become a friend, confidant, and brother to me. Like his brother priest, this man has been reassigned.

As I sat on a set of steps outdoors and wept after my goodbye tonight (realizing that another would be coming much sooner than I’d like), crying out in anguish to the Father in Heaven who sees each tear and feels my heartbreak, something occurred to me.

Goodbyes are hard for a reason, sisters.

Goodbyes remind us that we were not made for this world.

So often I forget how temporary this world is. I allow myself to become satisfied with the material, with the perishable, rather than holding out for the eternal. And that, sisters, is when goodbyes become difficult.

In this world, all things must pass, including our relationships. Whether it’s the move of a best friend, the death of a spouse, the growing up of a child, the ending of a friendship, or the reassignment of a priest or religious we have grown close to, goodbyes will come, and they will hurt.

So let them, sisters. Let them hurt. Let them reawaken the ache in your souls for the eternal. For when we come to heaven’s shore, we will be reunited with all those that we loved and lost, and we will never, ever have to say goodbye again.

So I’m going to lean into this pain, sisters. I’m going to embrace these goodbyes, as hard as they are. I’m going to rejoice in the tears. I’m going to turn to our loving Father with an ache in my soul that only He can fill. I pray that the next time you have a tough goodbye, you do the same.

This post appeared first on Blessed is She.

Disclaimer: This is a post I wrote a couple months ago that was featured on the Blessed is She blog!

BIS Sisterhood: Transfiguration

I don't know about you, but sometimes I have days where I just feel ugly. My hair won't seem to lie flat, my nose looks just a little too big, I feel bloated and fat, when I angle my head down too far I have this gross double chin. I simultaneously want to purge my entire self of all the junk food I've ever eaten while running for ten miles and yet want to burrow into my bed with a mountain of chocolate and binge on netflix. On these days I would give anything to change those little things about my appearance that I don't like. I'd like to trade in my glasses for perfect vision. I'd like to lose a few pounds. I'd like that little clump of flyaways in my hair that hasn't grown in five years to go away.

On these days, I have two options:

1. Wallow in self pity and continue to pick on all of the things about myself that I hate and wish I could change.

or

2. Recognize that these feelings plaguing me are lies and choose to focus on the things that I love about myself: the color of my hair, my long and thin fingers, the size of my eyes, my feet.

It seems to me that whenever I choose option 2, those feelings go away far quicker than when I choose option 1, and it's not long before I begin to feel fabulous and beautiful.

I have no doubt you've had this scenario happen to you as well. I use this as an example, because I think it's a good metaphor for our spiritual life.

Sometimes I have days where my soul feels ugly. Days where praying is hard. Where it seems that no matter how hard I try, I'm always weighed down by my sins and failures. Where I just can't seem to wrap my head around the words of Jesus. Where His will seems so unclear.

I think Peter felt like this as he followed Jesus up the mountain that day. Jesus has been doing a lot of amazing things and teaching the disciples a lot of difficult lessons. And Peter seems to be screwing up left and right. He just can't seem to get it right, and he can't understand what Jesus is trying to tell him about who Jesus is and what He's here for.

And then, just as Peter was undoubtedly reaching a breaking point with himself, Jesus revealed His glory to Peter. And from then on, Jesus begins to transfigure Peter's life. Peter goes from being this unimportant, timid fisherman to the brave and mighty leader of Jesus' Church after His ascension into heaven.

So often in my own life, I'm just like Peter when he's climbing that mountain. Frustrated, confused, discouraged. I go through my day with this weight on my soul, professing belief in His glory in my head but not feeling it in my heart.

And then, just as I reach my own breaking point, He allows me to see a flash of His glory, to know and feel His glorious presence in my soul. To realize that it was there all along, even when I didn't feel it. And each time He does this, He transfigures a small part of my brokenness. My stubborn tendencies, my impatience at trying to figure out His will, my frustration with my own weaknesses, my despair at my sinfulness. His glory penetrates these areas of my life and reveals the Truth to me.

There's a song that I've been listening to a lot lately that describes this more perfectly than my own words can.

"And I am changed, I am so very changed by You, and Your love that rains down on me. 

You have called me to this mountain, I will not turn around and walk away, I will move it, by Your grace I will move it." -MOVE by Jessica Schissel

Sisters, sometimes it can feel like an uphill battle. We can feel weighed down by the ugliness of sin. But as He did with Peter, the Lord is waiting to reveal His glory and transfigure those parts of yourself that you would like to throw out. Have patience and courage, dear ones. Have trust that He will move, too.


As a sidenote, check out MOVE. by Jessica Schissel (a good friend of mine who recently released this song on her first EP). Trust me, the whole EP is amazing.

"Martha, Martha"? More like "Catie, Catie."

I have a confession to make.

I'm Martha.

One hundred percent, no doubt in my mind, all self-knowledge kicking in, I am Martha.

I'm not Mary. I'm not good at sitting at His feet. I'm not good at being prayerfully idle. I am terrible at receiving.

I need to be doing. All the time. Even when I'm praying, I like to be doing something. Praying a rosary, meditating on Scripture, reading some other spiritual reading, playing guitar and praising. Something. I can reach a point where I can just sit, but it's nearly always difficult.

That's me. I'm a Martha at heart. And while I'm slowly but surely learning more and more how to be still in prayer, I'm naturally a Martha. And that is a tendency that I've always tried to fight against. Don't be a Martha. Be more like Mary. Jesus doesn't want you to be Martha, He wants you to be Mary.

But you know what?

I don't think being Martha is as bad as we all think.

Whenever people talk about Martha, I think they're far more likely to remember the Luke 10 Martha than they are to remember the John 11 Martha. We remember His admonition of her, but we don't remember how she grew from that.

"When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary sat in the house. Martha said to Jesus, 'Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. And even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.' Jesus said to her, 'Your brother will rise again.' Marthat said to him, 'I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.' Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?' She said to him, 'Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, he who is coming into the world.'" John 11:20-27.

The Martha that we meet in John 11 is a very different Martha than we know in Luke 10.

In Luke 10, Martha is full of concern over "many things". These things, though worthy, are not as important as sitting and resting in His presence.

In John 11, Martha rises to meet Jesus. She runs to Him, while Mary stays behind. And she then goes on to make a very beautiful profession of faith, one that we have seen from very few people at this point in the Gospels. "I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, he who is coming into the world." Martha recognizes who Jesus is. That's a big deal, y'all. And she couldn't have come to that if she was the same Martha that we met in Luke 10.

Martha has changed. She's grown. Instead of shutting down after Jesus' admonition in Luke 10, she took His words to heart. She re-evaluated her purpose for her 'doing'. She slowed down. She fought the battle that all of us face, the temptation to keep busy at all times. She learned to sit, to listen. To receive.

The personalities of Martha and Mary, though so often pitted against one another, are two sides of the same coin. Both are necessary. Both are beautiful. Both are indications of one who is living and growing in a life of grace.

We are God's hands and feet here on earth. We need to serve, to go out and do. Whether it's to be faithful to our studies, clean up after our children and cook for our husbands, go out and work to provide for our families, serve the poor, or participate in works of evangelization, we are called to do.

But the only way we have the grace to do all of those beautiful and admirable and necessary things is if we have an understanding of why we do them, an understanding of who we do them for. And the only way we'll be able to keep up with all that we need to do is if we take the time to rest, to sit at His feet, to be refreshed and filled by His love.

For all of her faults, Martha learned this lesson. It was this spiritual growth and maturity that enabled her to make such a beautiful profession of faith in John 11.

So yes, I am a Martha. And you know what? I'm pretty proud of that fact.

Happy feast day to all you other Marthas.

St. Martha, pray for us.

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7 things I learned while working Steubenville Conferences

This summer I had a pretty awesome job. I worked Liturgical Ministries for Steubenville Conferences. Here are seven things I learned from this summer, in no particular order.

1. Priests are really cool.

We had the opportunity to meet a lot of priests and have a lot of meals with them after the million confession times we ushered for the various conferences. I met a lot of really holy, awesome, funny priests with interesting stories and an incredible love for serving the Church.

Even the ones that I already knew are pretty cool. That is, when they're not making fun of me. Okay fine, even then.

2. If your team decides to keep a quotebook, be careful about what leaves your mouth.

Some choice quotes from the quotebook that make absolutely no sense (or just sound really bad) out of context:

"I'm the closest thing to perfect since the Blessed Virgin."

"I just love you for your priesthood, Fr Pat."

"I wasn't born to feed myself."

3. There are many different shades of tired, and each of them are funny.

My personal favorite is toddler tired. 

"I don't want anyone to touch me, talk to me, or even look at me, but I want you to cater to my every whim."

4. When you have a choice between great conversations and sleep, choose great conversations.

As appealing as your bed might be after only 10 hours of sleep in the last two days, I promise you that sleep-deprived conversations that turn deep at the strangest turn are worth even less sleep.

5. Famous Catholic speakers are people too.

No matter how awestruck I might be at the fact that Jackie Francois is standing three feet away from me, it's ridiculous to be too intimidated to ask her for a picture. 

Thanks for that life lesson, Br. Chris.

6. Wearing a radio automatically makes you seem in charge.

If you're wearing a headset, you obviously know the answer to any and every question. Even if this isn't true, luckily the fact that your headset is connected to a radio means that the answer to whatever question is easily found.

7. Being able to witness God change the hearts of thousands of teens is worth every moment of exhaustion or frustration at the fact that this fifth cup of coffee doesn't seem to be working.

What a gift.

Photo cred goes to Steubenville Conferences

Also, shoutout to my awesome team. Thankful for the hours I spent working side-by-side with each of these crazy people.

the beginning of a journey

I’ve wanted to start this blog for a long time.

I’ve had a blog before, but it was more one of those blogs where you throw out random snippets of your life and hope there’s someone out there that cares. In reality, I’m pretty sure only family members ever read it. 

This blog is different. This isn’t a blog about myself, at least not directly.

This blog is about Him. This blog is about my faith. This blog is about a love story between an ordinary girl and the One who died for love of her.

The truth is, I’ve been really nervous to start this blog. I’ve wanted to for a very long time, but it was pretty daunting. I was haunted with fears and insecurities. What if no one read it? What if I sound stupid? What if people judge me? What if I’m not as good at writing as everyone has always said? What if people think I’m a total loser?

And then I realized that it’s not my right to decide not to do this blog. I’ve been blessed to have a passion and a talent for writing. That passion and that talent was given to me by God for a reason, and to not use that gift would be like saying, “Sorry, Big Guy, I know you really wanted to give this to me, but it’s not the gift that I wanted, so you can have it back.”

So despite how much it freaks me out, I’m doing this. And even though I’m really nervous, I’m also excited. I know that this blog is going to be a journey for me, and I hope it’ll be one for you too.

To Jesus through Mary,
Catie