Mysterious Ways

I haven't been posting much at all lately. Just one year ago, I started this little blog, with a firm Lenten resolution to post regularly. That wasn't my resolution this year, but I still try to write a new post somewhat continuously.

I have a funny process for how a blog post makes it to the "published" world of the internet. It all begins with a thought. These little blog thoughts come to me in wonderful ways. Sometimes they come through prayer or spiritual reading, other times interactions with friends, and my favorite is to be inspired by a fleeting moment whereupon I am struck by a fantastic whim, a true gem of an idea. I can attribute all these only to God sending little messages to me though the most remarkably ordinary things. I began this blog as an outlet for my daily reveries, and the blog itself has ended up being another one of those remarkably ordinary things for God to show me something new. It has helped me to look at everything in a way that makes His presence known. Random things don't happen randomly anymore in my life.

After I catch that little inspiration, I hold on tightly. I study it for a time. I make sure my thought process isn't so much like spaghetti, but more like rotini. (You see, with spaghetti, you can't make sense of it, you can't tell where one noodle begins and ends. But rotini is bite-size, but still twirly and fun. Unlike penne, which is also bite size but frankly a little boring. Unless spaghetti gets you a kiss with the tramp, that handsomely scruffy pup, it is no good for a quick blog post.)

My next step is to stop thinking about pasta. And then I start to write. And save. And write. And edit. And edit. And take out that lame joke. And that other one. And so on.

And then it sits in my endless list of posts that were started, and saved, and wait to be published until it strikes their author's fancy.

And here I am , it's been weeks since a real and inspired post. But that is because the final step in my funny little blog posting process is that each and every post must sound like me. At least the way I think I sound. And lately I haven't been myself.

But then something spectacular happened! God, who works tirelessly each and every day to love me, sent me a sweet little thought through none other than a blog post and one of my favorite bands.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

-mumford & sons.

So thanks Anna, for being an instrument of God's love, and thanks Mumford & Sons, for speaking to my heart with music and lyrics. I think I will wear a flower in my hair tomorrow.

Why do we let girls dress like that?

Great article, read it here. (H/T Tala Burnison)

Out of the Woodworks

Why is it that so many people go to Ash Wednesday Mass? Do they know it's not a holy day of obligation? Now I have to think of a name for this group of people. People who only attend on Christmas and Easter are easy enough, they are called Creasters. You know, the ones who make it impossible to find a seat on the big days. I really think there should be priority seating for the regulars. Adding Ash Wednesday to the mix would just be really hard to abbreviate and come up with a new title.

Crashters? I'm working on it.

But seriously, why are there so many people attending our humble little noon mass on campus that I have never seen before? Sure, we might capture the older crowd, like professors and other adults who have their own parishes, and mass on campus was just the most feasible time. We might also get a few of the commuter students who go to mass at home with their family. But this can hardly be a sum total for all the other random students who can never seem to drag their behinds to the 8pm and 10pm student masses on Sunday. That's right folks, PM.

The only reason I can think for such high attendance rates is the visible sign of ashes. It's a noticeable and telling sign of what day it is. I guess we don't get any outwardly visible signs on any given Sunday. Palms are always exciting. They give you a little project to do when the homily stops holding your attention, and they look so pretty all folded up in the shape of the cross.

But I think I have a solution. We can make every Sunday mass noticeable, and attractive to the creasters.

Wait for it

Drum roll

.....

Get dressed up! Look presentable! Ladies, it's just as easy to slip on a dress (easier in fact, because it's only one item) than it is to put on jeans. Gents, would a shirt and tie be too much to ask? If so, I could settle for some khakis.

If you were going to meet the president, or the queen of England, would you wear a sloppy outfit? I certainly hope not. What if you were going to meet God? Think about it. And go comb your hair, wash behind the ears, and leave early for mass, because with all the fresh faces and classy outfits, it might be hard to find a seat!

Ready or Not

It's Ash Wednesday, the day we all get to be reminded that one day we are going to die.

Morbid? It's not, but I learned a lot of people who know nothing about it think so when you explain it to them that way. I'm not an awkward person, I just do awkward things.

One liturgical year ago minus one day I began this blog. So much has changed in one year, and the posts on this blog couldn't contain all that has happened.

Until I have finished the day, I can't give much a reaction to this particular Ash Wednesday, but I invite you to read my post from last year.

Here's hoping for a life-changing Lent!

Detachment

Lately, all my thoughts, prayers and blog posts have related to the present moment. Now God has decided to teach me a new lesson, just in time for Lent: detachment.

I put holy rollers in my hair today and decided to live order, and live presently. It started off so well.

My day began with scones and tea with some lovely ladies, then Mass, then Latin Mass (because if you can go twice, why the heck not?), then the local chocolate festival, because I wanted to make sure my salivary glands were in proper working condition before Mardi Gras, then puddle stomping because it was raining, and because I have great tall boots and the maturity level of a child when it rains. Or when it's sunny, snowing, windy, or warm. Then I got to talk to a group of people about my experience doing mission work in the Dominican Republic, which was basically just me reminiscing audibly in front of a group.

And there I was, fat and happy, pleased with my day. I marched triumphantly back into my apartment, swinging wide the door, announcing my entrance and wallowing in my consolation. And thus begins my lesson in detachment.

It all started innocently, when I put some water in a pot and to boil broccoli. That's some healthy, orderly living. Fresh vegetables, Mama would be proud. I wasn't always this good. In fact, I'm pretty sure there was a solid 5 or 6 years of my childhood in which my diet consisted of flour tortillas and shredded cheese. Microwaved for 35 seconds, wrapped in a paper towel, not on a plate, so that the moisture retention was just so. Perfection.

I digress.

So there I am, in my apartment, in front of our shattered oven door because we live on campus and pay way too much for things that fall apart because campus kitchens weren't built for people like my roommates and me who aspire to be pastry chefs, mothers and Martha Stewart clones. I digress again.

Broccoli florets bobbing happily in their bubble bath of ominous digestive doom, and then a phone call!

Should I answer? I let it ring once. Twice. I run to the phone. I run back to the broccoli. Three rings. I'm sweating. Not out of nervousness, just because I ran about 4 steps to and from the stove top.

And then, I remember this little blog, where I profess to be trying to live in the present moment. And of course, I should answer the phone, be the communal and relational being I was created to be.

It was a pleasantly casual conversation between friends.

Puffed up with joy, I skip merrily over to my roommate's bedroom to giggle and laugh and be joyful. On my way, mid skip and giggle, I see a puffing engine of steam. Oh BUSY.

I overcooked my broccoli to the point of mush because I was engrossed in a conversation. Now the only food items I have are shredded cheese, an egg, and an apple.

But my inner 7 year old is rejoicing. I think I'll go get some flour tortillas.

My Catholic Boy

Thanks to my friend Liz for sharing this video! (Lyrics below)




I love the way you love to pray when things get scary
Oh, what I would do to be with you and say a quick Hail Mary
Your faith is so real, boy, it ain't poser-y
Your prayer life includes a daily Rosary

You say that you like to reflect on the Psalms
I think that I'd like to take you home to meet my mom
You make me blush red like an apple
when I see you sit in Adoration in the chapel

You're my Catholic boy
You're my Catholic joy
You're my Catholic boy
and I'm waiting for you

St. Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, and you
My 4 favorite angels, my favorite dudes
Where's your wings? Where's your scapular?
Oh, you want a big family too? well, isn't that just spectacular!

Just like St. Therese, my vocation is Love,
married life, motherhood, all of the above
Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting
so won't you flee with me to my Pro-Life club meeting?

You're my Catholic boy
You're my Catholic joy
You're my Catholic boy
and I'm waiting for you

You're praising and worshiping, how angelic
Won't you just kiss me and make me a second class relic?
It doesn't necessarily have to be today
cause your purity ring lets me know that you know true love waits

You're my Catholic boy
You're my Catholic joy
You're so fine
Baby, you're Divine
You're my Catholic boy
and I'm waiting for you
You're my Catholic boy
and I'm waiting for you

This NEVER gets old

Maybe you have seen this before. I have seen it at least 9 zillion times. Watch, enjoy, giggle, repeat.




Also, I found this article incredibly interesting. A man's point of view on "nice Catholic girls". I can't decide who would find this more interesting, women or men. (H/T Elizabeth Foss)