my strength in all my crosses

“My HEART is ready, O God; 

I will sing, sing your praise.”

~psalm 108

May the eyes of our HEARTS be enlightened, that we may know what is the hope that belongs to God’s call, what are the riches of glory in his inheritance among the holy ones.”

~Ephesians 1:18

“How long must I bear grief in my soul,

this sorrow in my HEART day and night?…

As for me, I trust in your merciful love.

Let my HEART rejoice in your saving help;

Let me sing to the Lord for his goodness to me…”

~psalm 13

“I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel,

who even at night directs my HEART…

And so my HEART rejoices, my soul is glad;

even my body shall rest in safety.”

psalm 16

“May the peace of God which surpasses all understanding guard our HEARTS in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

~Philippians 4:7

“You, then, shall be my strength, O my God! You shall be my guide, my director, my counselor, my patience, my knowledge, my peace, my justice, and my prudence. i will have recourse to you in my temptations, in my dryness, in my repugnances, in my weariness, in my fears; or rather I will no longer fear either the illusions or the tricks of the demon, nor my own weakness, my indiscretions, nor even my mistrust of myself. For you must be my strength in all my crosses.”

~Saint Claude de la Colombière

+     +     +

For the past several months — or rather, more than likely since my first angioplasty this past year, I have felt understandably off-balance. Even as my body recovered and got used to the new meds, my emotions have been all over the planet — and my spirit has felt, for lack of a better word, unsettled. 

Like a walk through dense, deep fog, everything has been just a little out of focus. And the peace that I have been yearning for has felt just out of reach. 

Fearful. Anxious. Unsure of myself. And on top of it all, a thick dose of guilt about everything I have been feeling. How am I not overwhelmed with gratefulness? Why am I not jumping to the sky with joy? I did not have a heart attack. we caught things before “the widowmaker” stopped my heart, before anything irreversible happened. 

In other words, why am I not, well, completely overwhelmed by courage, hope, thanksgiving, and life?

The root of the word COURAGE is COR, the Latin word for HEART. So, in the word’s earliest form, the word COURAGE literally meant, “to speak one’s mind by telling all that is in one’s HEART.”

If I am to tell all of what’s in my HEART, I must begin by acknowledging that learning this past year that I have a heart condition, makes me feel vulnerable, and often, extremely fragile. 

Yet any doubts that I have and that I acknowledge about myself, my ability to handle things, or more importantly, about my faith, does not make me unworthy, unfaithful, or lacking. 

It makes me open and real and seeking. And that is where God is. I am not alone.

That is my COR, my heart, the source of my COURAGE.

la fé celebrada: #MyMigrationStory

As National Migration Week comes to an end, a final reflection.

As a young Cuban refugee growing up in the neighboring island of Puerto Rico, I was keenly aware of all that made me different. In spite of speaking the same language, my schoolmates teased me for my differences in speech.

Like refugee families from other cultures, ours was a multi-generational home shared with three grandparents. Our family spent a considerable amount of our time and energy taking classes and attending events meant to remind us of our native culture, lest we ever forget what made us Cuban—and why we were refugees.   

It was an unsettling time for all the adults in my life. This meant that I attended five different grade schools and lived in five different homes—one not corresponding with the other.  

I was a perceptive child, more aware than most of the inner struggles of those suffering around me. In a very real way, I felt my parents’ anguish over the family and friends left in Cuba. I ingested my grandmother’s nighttime tears and loneliness. I experienced my grandparents’ uprootedness and displacement.  

In the midst of all this inner suffering and external displacement—and perhaps directly because of it—my sense of place, belonging, and peace became deeply rooted in the Catholic faith.  

Unlike most people’s experience, however, this sense of being claimed and chosen was not attached to one parish—but in a very real way, to the Church universal. Walking into a church. Celebrating the liturgy in unison. Receiving the Eucharist with mis hermanos, my brothers and sisters in the faith. This was, and is, home to me. 
  

In truth, there’s no substitute for the basics. Honest, daily prayer. Reclaiming the graces of the Sacraments. Approaching faith and tradition with a willing heart. Reclaiming the liturgy, and especially the Eucharist, as our home—the source from which “all its power flows.” 

Only if we put the events of our lives—past, present, future—in contact with the Word of God and the Sacraments will those events become signs of God’s presence in and for our lives. 

Only if we recommit to daily private and public prayer can we “rediscover the content of the faith that is professed, celebrated, lived and prayed.” 

Do we dare live our lives with such certainty?

[ This reflection, “Faith Celebrated,” was first published 

in the August 2013 issue 

of St. Anthony Messenger magazine ]

THE WALLS ARE TALKING: blog tour

As I began to read Abby Johnson’s new book, “The Walls are Talking,” I couldn’t help but recall the words and the urgency I have heard in the voice of Ugandan Sister Rosemary Nyirumbe:

“I urge you to not sugarcoat evil.”

Sister Rosemary Nyirumbe, who runs a school for victims of the notorious Lord's Resistance Army, has seen with her own eyes the devastating consequences of violence, and she knows first-hand how important it is to face up to evil—to name it.

In a very real way, Abby Johnson’s new book is doing exactly that—courageously naming the tragic truth about the evil of abortion. And she does it by gathering a powerful collection of true stories from the lives of former abortion clinic workers.

“Those of us that have worked in the abortion industry all live with a constant burden. We can’t let our burden slide off of our shoulders; it is what keeps us on fire. It reminds us of why we fight so hard. We have seen death and evil in a way that most haven’t—and we participated. But we are forgiven. He who has been forgiven much, loves much. And we love a lot…

When I was confirmed as a Catholic, I chose Mary Magdalene as my confirmation saint. I felt an immediate connection to her. She had sinned so much—and was forgiven in even greater amounts. She knew she didn’t deserve forgiveness—but she received it anyway. And because of this, she clung to Christ. She knew she was nothing without him.

Because they are personal accounts, the stories of “The Walls Are Talking” are, in a sense, a simple read. But they are not an easy read.

These stories will make you uncomfortable. And they should, because they don’t sugarcoat evil.

Ultimately, however, this collection of personal experiences is a proclamation of mercy. They are stories of hope -- because the truth is also that none of us deserve to be loved by God as fully and completely as we are. And all of us yearn for His forgiveness and Love.

One of the last things that Sister Rosemary pointed out in her keynote address at the Catholic Media Conference in Buffalo is that, “Africa is being saved by African women” – women who were taken against their will as young girls and forced to commit atrocities against one another. And yet also women who know first hand that life can be changed, dignity can be restored, and forgiveness will always follow mercy.

I admire and pray for Abby Johnson and her ministry as she, too, hopes for the day when – paraphrasing Sister Rosemary’s words – the abortion industry will be saved by former “and repentant abortion providers.”

“Pray for those who have contributed to this book. Pray for their continued healing. And most of all, pray for those who have not converted yet. We are waiting for them with our warms wide open.”

~Abby Johnson

“The Walls Are Talking:

Former abortion clinic workers

 tell their stories”

Heather King + Magnificat = priceless

You may already know about the award-winning publicationMagnificat. It’s my go-to source for the Scripture readings of the day, night prayer, and daily reflections.

And you may also already know of Heather King from her popular and insightful blog ShirtofFlame, or from one of her published memoirs, or maybe you recognize her name from the lovely book “Shirt of Flame: a Year with St. Thérèse of Lisieux.”

But—have you seen yet Heather King’s collection of Magnificat reflections, “Holy Days and Gospel Reflections”?

This little book is truly a gem.

Using one or two page-long reflections—that short and punchy Magnificat formula that I’ve grown to love, Heather King gives new light and perspective to even the most common feasts.

With insight and discernment, King intuitively demonstrates that—whatever the topic—she’s thought about, pondered, prayed over, and finally, ingested what she hears God saying about it for her life.  And with sincere openness, she allows this Catholic faith to speak to her, daily.

I confess that I’ve loved Heather King’s writing ever since I read her memoir “Redeemed” –and I discovered her blog. I appreciate and am thankful for the way she allows herself to wrestle with the meaning and purpose of the personal events in her life.  She gets that life is in constant motion—and that our task is to say ‘yes.’

But perhaps the greatest gift that King gives her readers is her disarming honesty and vulnerability—and the fact that she writes about it, reminding us to be “real” in our common pilgrimage of faith.

Take for example this reflection in the book, the entry for “All Souls Day,” November 2^nd.  On a visit to her aging mother, King acknowledges her life-long desire to connect with her mom, to “know” her—and to have her mom “know, see, understand” her, the oldest child.

“Mom,” I blurted, “do you think after we die that we’re reunited with the people we love? Do you think afterward we’re all together?”

“No,” she replied shortly. “I think when you go you just go. I just try to enjoy each day as it comes.”

My mind raced. Mom, a lifelong Protestant, believed in God: what about the Resurrection? What about the seed falling to the ground and dying and bearing much fruit? What about Jesus appearing to the disciples after the third day?

“Really?” I said. “You don’t think there’s anything afterward at all?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she waved me off. “That will take care of itself. Let someone else worry for a change.”

I looked over at that dear, common-sense face, and I suddenly saw that I must have driven her crazy with my incessant desire to over-bond, over-emote, over-worry. I saw my whole life I’d waited for a conversation that in this world didn’t, couldn’t, exist. Enjoy each day as it comes. Let someone else worry for a change. Everything is all right. Everything had always been all right.

Maybe the greatest gift we can give the people we love, alive or dead, is to free them from our expectations. I will pray for her, and all those I have loved, on All Soul’s Day.

But no one, not even Mom, can convince me that we’re not going to all be together after we die.

Or this one, a reflection on Damaris, a woman of Athens converted by St. Paul’s preaching in the Areopagus:

Damaris… her name appears nowhere else in Greek literature.

Paul is preaching the resurrection of the dead, a scandal in any era, and it is humbling to consider the unlikeliness that anyone is ever converted at all. It is humbling to remember that we go back in an unbroken line to these first few converts who were willing to believe what we want to believe but can hardly bring ourselves to believe: that death is not the end; that a lowly carpenter from the backwater of Nazareth entered human space, time, and history, and vanquished death.

I once attended a prison orientation in order to be able to share the story of my alcoholism with the inmates. For three hours the trusty went on about the hardened criminals, the crafty criminals, the criminals who would come for the coffee but not for the message. But to have broken through prison walls yourself is to know that someone else can, too.

At the end, I raised my hand. “A hundred won’t hear, but one will,” I said. “That’s why we come.”

That is how our faith is spread, then, as now.

Paul preaches. Damaris hears.

Trust me. This is one book you want to keep on your prayer table or nightstand.

I do.