Catholic Herald

What do you do when you walk into a restaurant? Even a child as young as three could list the steps. Walk in. Get seated with menus. Server takes drink orders. Server takes entrée orders. Appetizers come, followed by salads and entrees. The server offers dessert. Then comes the check. It is so common a formula that even in other countries it doesn’t fluctuate much.

We don’t think much about it, but it’s a system that works. When we walk into a restaurant for the first time, we are free to take in the atmosphere and enjoy the food because we are not concerned with trying to guess what kind of food they have in the back or how we might go about eating some of it.

God created the universe in an order, and as the high point of that creation, we thrive on order. This is why we have things like traffic laws. There is a certain level of order that is necessary for things to actually get done. Yet in our society, there is kind of a general sense that certain conventions of etiquette are passé, or even harmful. While certain things can be filed under “trivial,” others are in place for good reasons.

A good example for differentiating the two is wedding planning. I got married in New Jersey, where people don sparkly, grown-up prom dresses to the reception, host lavish multi-course meals and generally go all out. As I was marrying a Midwesterner, certain items that seemed absolutely necessary to my family seemed ridiculous to my beloved and his family. We had to look at the different items of etiquette and ask, “Is this central to people feeling welcome and comfortable, or is it an artificial expectation designed to feed a ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ mentality?”

The line was not always clear, but we navigated it fairly well. For example, we decided that table assignments were necessary because the majority of folks were from New Jersey, where it is the custom, and without them, they would be wandering around wondering what to do. We also saw it as a small mercy to certain folks who didn’t know many people. We sat them with folks we knew would be friendly and welcoming.

We decided that despite my mother’s protests, no one would be adversely affected by the lack of tissue paper in the invitations, and the fact that we gave a reply postcard instead of a card and an envelope.

We need to take a critical look at the conventions we are getting rid of, to be sure that we aren’t losing the baby with the bathwater. For example, I would be in favor of bringing back some sort of blanket social rule for what kids call adults. Some of my peers have been uncomfortable with being called “Mr. or Mrs. So and So,” and have told kids that a first name is just fine. Others ask their children to use adults’ titles and last names. Others use a conglomerate of title and first name. The result is a weird mixture of things that kids end up calling adults.

When I was growing up, we called adults by their titles and last names. I still refer to my parents’ friends that way. Maybe it was formal, but at least people knew what to do. Behind this issue is not merely awkward party conversation but a methodology of what we want our children to learn about authority, relationships and respect.

If I may be so bold, I would suggest a more serious loss of social convention now exists in marriage. Back in the old days there used to be general social norms that people followed in forming families. They would date, meet one another’s families, get married and then start a family.

With the current social acceptance of premarital sex and cohabitation, the new norm seems to be to date, begin sleeping together, move in together and then decide to get married. Generally, people still try to wait until after marriage for children but not always.

Since this is in the culture, many people today are simply following societal norms when they proceed in this order. I know many wonderful people who have, so I don’t want this to come off as a condemnatory rant. It is not intended that way.

However, the new order of things calls into question the meaning of marriage. Whereas, for millennia it was a public expression of a couple’s commitment and the beginning of their new life together, the fact that many couples today are already living together seems to suggest that marriage is simply a celebration of the couple’s love. The shift is now from marriage as an institution of stability for society and children to being about only the bride and groom. Of course, it should be about their love. But not entirely.

Finally, we need to think critically before throwing out norms that have been in place for millennia in the church. There is a reason why the Catholic Church moves so slowly. She knows that small changes make a difference in the faith of her members. That is why it is so important for parishes and priests to follow the norms for liturgy, for instance.

Although it was not the intent of Vatican II, certain changes made after the council designed to make people more comfortable with God, have led to a decreased devotion to the Eucharist and even an abandonment of faith in the real presence of Jesus in that sacrament. We need to use our bodies to express the sacredness of the liturgy.

Not all change in social convention is bad. I, for one, am grateful that I don’t have to figure out which fork to use when dining with friends (normally there is just one, and often it’s plastic), or which color shoes and gloves to wear based on the calendar. However, it is worth looking critically at what is behind a certain convention before tossing it out. What is at stake could very well be the simultaneous abandonment of the virtue that act was meant to encourage.

What do you do with your palm branches? You know, the souvenirs you get from making it through the longest Gospel reading of the year? They used to do a palm-braiding workshop at our church, and people ended up with the most beautiful creations. When I was little, I took advantage of the extra time in the pew to mold a less-than-spectacular cross. Now we generally take them home and put them beneath the corner of our various religious wall hangings.

The palm branches are, of course, a symbol of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. His disciples, according to Luke, “began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works they had seen” (19:37). The striking irony at every Palm Sunday Mass is that the centerpiece of it is the narrative of the Passion of Our Lord, the fact that the crowd who shouted “Hosanna” on a Sunday shouted, “Crucify him!” on Friday. Those palms, no matter how brilliantly braided, remind us that we are hypocrites.

Hypocrisy is a glaring issue for Christians: we aspire to be perfect as our Heavenly Father is perfect, but fall short every time. This problem causes many to scoff at us, and others to just give up with faith completely, assuming it is better to not try to live up to the Christian ideal than to “be a hypocrite.”

But let’s go back to Mt. Olivet for a minute. There is Jesus, riding on a donkey, his disciples waving palms and praising him. The Pharisees are outraged and tell Jesus to silence his disciples praising him as God. Jesus tells them that if his disciples stop their praises, the very rocks will cry out. In other words, Jesus, knowing the betrayal that was around the corner from these palm-wavers, forbade them to stop their praises. It is not our attempts at holiness that are the problem. It is the lack of follow through when the going gets tough.

So, Jesus seems to prefer hypocrisy to total disengagement. Then what is to be done? We follow this Holy Week to its end. What is Jesus’ answer to hypocrisy? The Cross. The whole Old Testament, and even the Gospels, are a story of good intentions that fall totally short. We can’t do it on our own! Jesus knows this and that is why he willingly died on the cross: to release the Holy Spirit, that through grace, can actually make us into who we are called to be.

Obviously, we are not to revel in the fact that we are sinners. The palms themselves beckon our response; they are burned the following year and placed on our heads as ashes reminding us of our need for repentance. A penitent heart is the only heart that can be open to the life-changing spirit Jesus came to win for us. So, if you haven’t been to the sacrament of reconciliation yet this Lent, run! The Lord has a lot prepared for each of us this Holy Week. Let us wave our palms, rend our hearts and prepare to receive the grace.

Are we there yet: words that strike fear into the hearts of parents everywhere, particularly when uttered on the very early end of a long car ride by a squirrely child.  Lucky for my husband and I, they are normally quoted from the movie, The Incredibles as a joke, which earns the faux-angry reply from Brad, “We’ll get there when we get there!”

Actually, we really are lucky.  My husband’s family lives 9 hours away (of pure drive time), and our son does very well in the car.  Better, sometimes than his mom.  What holds him on the way down is the thought that if he can just hang in there long enough, our car will eventually pull into the gravel driveway and Grandma and her kitties will be waiting.  I have been shocked as we pull into a rest stop somewhere in the vast expanse of Wisconsin, to see him jump excitedly into his car seat, ready to go-see-Grandma!

How’s Lent going for you?  Around this time perhaps you are questioning if you fast was too harsh or your prayer routine too regimented.  Lent can sometimes feel like a nine hour car ride, especially when paired with a seemingly endless winter.  Are we there yet?

I think the key to persevering in Lent is remembering what follows.  In the past, I have fallen to the trap of believing in Lent we should feel sad all the time, suck it up and suffer. Sometime on Holy Saturday, we flip the Happy Switch, perk up and eat our jelly beans.  That’s not it at all.  Yes, we are called to sacrifice during Lent, to pray more and help the poor. But why?

Lent, the desert time, is meant to bring us somewhere much better than Grandma’s house; to Easter.  It is through the suffering of our fast and prayer and alms that we arrive closer to Jesus at the end of the journey.  Ascetical practices are a means to an end, not an end in themselves.  This is what makes some skeptical about the spirituality of suffering: what good does it do the world that I skip my Snickers at lunch? None.  What good does it do for me to skip a Snickers and offer that up with the sufferings of Christ? More than we know.

Just as it is necessary for the tires on my van to make contact with every inch of road between here and Grandma’s house, it is necessary for us to deny ourselves and engage our wills in the things of God in order to be closer to him.  There simply is no other way. In risk of overextending the metaphor, Jesus did say something about the road leading to life being narrow and rough.  Those who do not embrace the meaning of Lent, making an effort to draw nearer to Christ, simply will not arrive at their destination on Easter Sunday.  This is why the Church can be full to the rafters on that day, but no extra special spiritual fruit is seen in the additional attendance.

One final thought. Lent is a model for our lives.  In the Hail Holy Queen prayer, we call our lives on earth a “valley of tears.” While you hopefully don’t bawl your eyes out daily, I would guess that you don’t have to look further than your parish bulletin, your inbox or the evening news to know that this world is one of great suffering.  God uses these real desert experiences of our lives to bring us closer to him as well.  And, like Lent, there is no shortcut around them.  Every illicit detour we take to try and avoid suffering finds us lost or stuck in the ditch. The only way around suffering is through it.

So, take heart on these long Lenten days.  The sun will shine again, the snow will eventually melt, and we will finally “get there.” Let us embrace the time we have left, waiting in joy for Christ’s resurrection day, both at Easter and at the end of time.

My husband and I have been very busy lately, so we have only caught a little bit of the Olympics. This is a shame, because it is one of the few sporting events for which I am excited. I love the athletes’ stories and the fact that they come from so many different places and cultures to all compete in the same sport. And, of course, who doesn’t love watching the American flag raised as one of our athletes mouths the words to the Star Spangled Banner?

I cannot even fathom the amount of determination that it takes these athletes to achieve their goal of Olympic gold. Most started in their sport when they were little quickly became serious. Whether it is figure skating, skiing or snow boarding, the love for sport has been a central theme of the lives of each one.

Their lives have revolved around training. They have endured great physical pain so to move past injuries. They have endured criticism from commentators. Through it all, it was the idea of Olympic gold that kept them going. To see them achieve the goal is so beautiful!

I especially enjoyed watching Lindsey Vonn win the gold in downhill skiing. She came into the Olympics with a shin injury and some weather delays bought her enough healing time to pull off becoming the best woman downhill skier in the world. She wept when she learned the news, and I don’t blame her. Vonn talked about all the hard work and sacrifice that had brought her to this point in her career and how she had now accomplished what she had always dreamed of doing. Her whole life had lead up to that moment, and she was rightly treasuring it.

As excited as I am for Vonn and all the athletes that will go home with a medal, watching her and others achieve a lifelong dream at a young age makes me think, “Now what?”
Of course there will be celebrations and endorsements and maybe even training for the next big championship. But then what? One can only be a professional athlete for so long. And what about the athletes who won’t go home with a medal? The ones who, no matter how hard they train, will never stand on the podium because of their genetic code, or environment or whatever else? What happens to them?

Some of the coolest conversion stories I have heard are not the ones of people who hit bottom and turned to God, but the ones who had received everything and realized it was not enough. They point to the fact that nothing we accomplish in time and space will ever be able to completely fulfill us because we are built for eternity.

I’m not down on athletes. On the contrary, the pursuit of athletic excellence has been used since biblical times to highlight the need to pursue holiness. St. Paul said, “Every athlete exercises discipline in every way. They do it to win a perishable crown, but we an imperishable one. Thus I do not run aimlessly; I do not fight as if I were shadowboxing. No, I drive my body and train it, for fear that, after having preached to others, I myself should be disqualified” (1 Cor 9:25-27).

No one just climbs off the couch, licks the Cheeto powder off their fingers and jumps in line to compete at the Olympics. Their lives are ordered around achieving the “perishable crown” of Olympic gold. This is how we are called to live our faith. Not aimlessly, but purposefully training our bodies and wills through fasting, nourishing our souls with prayer and the sacraments, and by refining our virtue through selfless works of charity.
It is hard work, to be sure. It requires us to center our lives on the goal and make a lot of sacrifices for it. The good news is, that if we persevere, we will be victorious. Jesus did the heavy lifting for us, and our participation is just that — participation. Each person, in their great talent or their deep infirmity has what it takes to win the prize.

I will never be an Olympic athlete. I will never stand on a podium, or star in commercials or make millions selling sneakers. I’m okay with that. Instead, some day I hope to be greeted by the throngs of the Blessed and the words, “well done, good and faithful servant!” (Matt 25:21).

My spring training starts again this Lent. How about you?

I took a big microwave to the thrift store today.  It had been sitting on the counter in my “weird room” (we call it that because it was an illogical addition to the house; too big to be a mudroom, too small and disjointed to be part of the kitchen) for close to two years.  Taking up half of the counter, I had filled up the other half with other assorted random stuff, making the whole space essentially useless.

Since the countertop on one side of the room looked messy, it didn’t bother me much that the one on the other was also unorganized.  Since the countertops were a mess, the room started to take on the feel of a junk room, where it was not uncommon, during particularly busy days, to leave grocery bags, still filled with canned goods, at the foot of the cabinet in which they belonged.  Clutter attracts clutter.

The crowning jewel of the weird room has been an assortment of things which we either could find no place for, or did not make time to put in their rightful places, i.e. recyclables, paint cans, shoes, outerwear, a folding chair, last year’s Christmas lights and the list goes on. It’s not a big room and since it is the main artery between the garage and house, the overstuffed state was leading me toward a serious attack of frustration.

So today I made the decision that the ten bucks I might profit from the microwave on Craig’s list was not worth the process of selling the item and its countertop friends. I called the thrift shop, found out they would take the monster, and drove it over there.  The action itself, two years in the making, only took about a half hour.

I am not proud to admit that there are many microwaves in my life.  Little by little, I am beginning to try and weed out these preventable annoyances.  After eliminating one, I always think to myself, “Why the heck didn’t I do that sooner?”

Are you ready for the spiritual analogy? What gets in the way of our spiritual progress more than anything, causing us to stumble and trip, or in some cases completely blocks our path to God? Sin, of course.

Our souls sometimes look a lot like my weird room.  Once we’ve permitted a big microwave of a sin to get comfy, other offenses don’t seem so bad.  The longer we leave things that way, the easier it gets to let ‘em pile up. Soon the place is a mess and we get to be at peace with it.  No one’s house is perfect, right?

The kicker is that for us, it really couldn’t be easier to clean up our souls.  Before Jesus came, the Israelites offered animal sacrifices, and made long, dangerous pilgrimages in order to atone for sin.  Even in the early church, there was limited access to the sacrament of reconciliation.  But us? We only have to drive to the nearest church and simply confess our sins with a contrite heart, then do our small penance.  Why don’t we do it more often?

Sure, having God clean our spiritual houses does not guarantee that they will not get messy again.  In fact, let’s be honest — we know they will. But, if I knew that I only had to go down the street for ten minutes, or even a half hour, and my house would be clean again, I would go every week!  And the fact of the matter is, that the cleaner we keep things, the more we notice dirt.  By cleaning up often, we slowly become cleaner people.  So it is with God.  The more we go to confession, the more grace we get to notice our sin and to stop sinning as much.

If you are like me, you are now knee-deep in “resolution season”, in which America essentially tries for a few weeks to get organized and eat healthy.    Let’s not leave our souls out of the fun.

Resolution season is over.  The plastic storage bins have been filled, we’ve lost our 5-10 holiday pounds (or have given up on doing so) and we are ready to move on to the next cultural season: midyear TV show premiers, including the popular American Idol.

For those unfamiliar, a quick summary:  it is a talent competition for singers.  The first phase follows the judges in their auditions of hundreds of hopefuls.  Of those, a set number go to Hollywood to compete and numbers dwindle as viewers vote for a favorite. The show ends with one lucky performer crowned an American Idol at the end of the season.

Some think that these untalented hopefuls are putting on an outrageous act just to get on TV.  One radio talk show host disagrees.  He shared that in his days as a program director at a Christian music station, he encountered many such sincere people convinced they were the next Michael W. Smith, but really weren’t good enough to even put on the air.

I concur, and that is why I can’t watch it. But many others can’t get enough, which causes me to ask why.

My best guess: as humans, we inherently long for virtue.  If it is true that the terrible Idol contestants really think they are great, then they lack the virtue of humility.  There is something satisfying about watching the proud fall.

It is important to point out that humility is not self-deprecation, but the ability to view things as they are.  It would not be humble for Josh Groban to pretend he can’t sing.  Humility is inherently attractive in people. It is endearing to see someone who is very accomplished accept compliments graciously.

An example: Captain Chelsey “Sully” Sullenberger who landed US Air flight 1549 in the Hudson River just over a year ago.  His reply to all the kudos he received for his life-saving skills?  Simply that he, a former fighter pilot, had been trained for such a thing and that he had a tremendous crew.

Pride, the opposite of humility and the inordinate love of self, is inherently repulsive to us.  How many legitimately talented sports or entertainment figures irritate us because they seem to believe the world revolves around them?   Even if someone is the most successful at their trade, no one likes to hear people blather on about how good they are.

Humility is walking in truth.  It means realizing that first and foremost we owe everything to God.   We are dependent on him for literally everything.  It is he who keeps the sun shining and our little blue marble spinning around it at exactly the right angle to keep it hospitable for humans.  It is he who provides for our food and shelter.  More importantly, though, we would be spiritually dead if not for his grace.  We cannot do a good deed or entertain a good thought if God had not first inspired it.

While it is right for someone like Josh Groban or Captain Sullenberger to accept compliments about their successful careers, it is also right for them to keep a low profile about it.  After all, they did not choose to be born with their talents, as talent is a gift from God.  They didn’t choose to be born into families that could provide opportunities to develop their talents; that was a gift from God.   Even the hours of hard work they invested in their craft were motivated by virtue, and enabled by God.  They should be glad at their accomplishments, but keep them in perspective.

In a culture that extols self esteem as its own virtue, humility is refreshing to see in people.  It is also very freeing to the one who possesses it.  If I acknowledge God as the giver of all good things, and people as better or worse cooperators with what they’ve been given, then I do not have to feel bad about myself for things I cannot control.  I don’t need to be the best singer, or airline pilot or entrepreneur.  I just have to be me.

It is only when we are humble that the seeds of God’s grace can grow in our hearts.

Maybe it is best to refrain from treating anyone outside the bathroom to your vocal stylings.  That’s okay.  Seek to impress not some tactless English music producer, but the God who made you and loved you enough to hang on a cross to save your life.  It doesn’t make for good TV, but it could get you canonized.

There is not much written on the first few pages of my oldest son’s baby book. This is because of the old adage, “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Not that I didn’t have anything nice to say about him. He was gorgeous, and we loved him dearly. It was the whole first-weeks-of-motherhood thing that was a challenge. Labor and delivery were rough. Nursing did not get off to a good start, so we spiraled into a regimen of feeding, supplementing and pumping that left no time for the baths and naps I was ordered to take. Hormones and sleep deprivation teamed up to create a reality for me which was a hazy shadow of the world others were living in.

Worst of all, though, was the mystery cry. This was when Isaac would cry, sometimes very insistently, and we would have no idea what to do about it. Was he hungry? No, not eating. Wet? Nope. Want to be held? Well, he prefers that to being put down, but it’s not helping. Gas? Maybe, but how do you fix it? Ugh. A frustrating fact for both parent and baby is that you can only really be certain of what was wrong the instant after the need is met.

As we continue in the Christmas season, it does us well to reflect on Jesus the Baby. Although I am pretty sure all the things I listed above are results of the Fall and so perhaps not applicable to the Holy Family (for instance, the Church holds that Mary was a virgin during childbirth, which means Jesus was delivered miraculously and therefore without pain and hours of pushing). However, Jesus was a Divine person who took on a completely human nature. He was a real crying, pooping, nursing baby.

Think about it for a moment. The God who existed from all eternity, the One who created the universe from nothing with just a word, took on human flesh in the womb of one of his own creatures. Is there a creature more vulnerable on this planet than a fetus? Than a newborn? Abortion was not as medically sophisticated in Jesus’ day as it is now, but it was attempted. And in Roman society, at a father’s whim, a newborn could be left out in the wilderness to die of exposure or taken by animals.

God chose to come to us in a completely helpless state. Just like my infant son, he could not communicate even his most basic needs at first. He was totally dependent on Mary and Joseph to care for him and protect him. Wow. And do we dare go a step further? He still comes to us this way. Jesus could have made a sacrament out of anything he wanted, but he chose bread and wine. Once the priest speaks those words of consecration, we believe that the bread and wine are substantially changed into Jesus’ Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity.

Although it still looks and tastes like bread, it’s really the Baby of Bethlehem. And just like the baby, it is vulnerable. We can choose to receive the Eucharist reverently, or we can choose to nail it to a wall and post pictures on the internet. He leaves that up to us.

Why would the Ruler of the Cosmos allow himself to be in such a state, where at best he is sometimes allowed to go stale, and at worst is subjected to humiliating desecration? Because that is the kind of God we have. He is crazy about us and knows that we are so wounded by sin that we have trouble with authority. He knows that if he appeared before us as he really was that it would literally scare us to death. But who could be afraid of a baby? Of a piece of bread? Under these two forms, God is saying to us, “do not be afraid to approach me.” He is also in the same position as he is on the cross, shouting with his actions, “There is nothing in this for me. This is 100% for you. Do you believe now that I love you?”

Finally, Jesus becomes vulnerable for us because he respects our dignity. If he appeared in all his glory, we would be shocked into worship. He wants us to choose him. Our capacity to choose love is the key to having been made in his image, and that capacity is crippled if we are not free to also deny him. And how much joy does it give him when we, like Mary and Joseph, tenderly hold him close, sit before him in awe and worship, receive him into our hearts and homes and protect him from danger. Respectively, these are things we do when we pray, receive the Eucharist in the right state of soul, go to Adoration, make him Lord of our families, defend his honor against those who would blaspheme him and fight for the rights of all other vulnerable human lives.

So the next time you have the honor of holding a brand new baby, it could do you well to remember that this was the form in which your God first came to you. In fact, it is in that form that he comes to you every week at Mass. This baby, however, makes no secret about what he wants from you: some measure of love for love.

To say that my almost-five-year-old was excited for Christmas to come is an extreme understatement.  At the table at every meal afterward he said things like, “Is tomorrow Christmas?” No. “The day AFTER tomorrow??”

At one point he was literally jumping up and down shouting “I can’t wait for Jesus’ birthday!!”
I, on the other hand, have historically had philosophical trouble with the shift from Advent to Christmas.  As I said in a previous column, Advent fits in nicely with longing for the Second Coming and a time when all things would be set straight.  It is also a beautiful opportunity to reflect on the coming of Jesus every time the priest raises the bread above his head and pronounces the words of Consecration.  This looking toward the future is what we are still doing in this valley of tears, and the Eucharist is a daily or weekly staple for the faithful.  But preparing for Jesus to come as a baby?    This is harder not only because of our family situation but because it makes my brain hurt in that “Back to the Future” kind of way.  I know how to prepare for the actual birth of a child.  But how do you prepare for a child to be born 2,000 years ago? How do you celebrate that?

I think my bouncy preschooler has yet again taught his amateur-theologian mother another important lesson: Christmas is Jesus’ birthday.  (Isn’t that worth three years of grad school tuition?) No, seriously, I think sometimes we adults forget that at the heart of all the rich traditions and family gatherings that we are essentially celebrating the most important birthday that mankind will ever celebrate.  What do we do on birthdays? One thing we do implicitly is reflect on the importance of that person in our lives.  The other is to give gifts to the person of honor. We should do no less for our Blessed Lord.

Although I can identify with Ancient Israel in darkness, waiting for the Messiah, I really have no idea how much better I have it than they did.  Can you possibly imagine a world without the thumbprint of his humanity upon it? Before Jesus became man, we were still fully under the curse of Original Sin.  As the Book of Ecclesiasticus put it, all was vanity.  You labored to feed your family, but at the end of the day, what good did it do?  Even if you made a decent living, at the end of it all you died.  But Jesus came and took on our flesh and worked as a carpenter for thirty years.  Now our work has been redeemed and death is vanquished.

Before Jesus, we had been subject to a Law that we could not keep.  The Old Testament is a chronicle of man breaking promises to God.  Now Jesus has given us a stricter law of love on our hearts, but he has also given the means to fulfill that law: grace.  Before Jesus there were holy men and women, but now the possibility is open to every single one of us to ascend the mountain of sanctity.

Before Jesus, all we had was the distorted type of Adam.  As Vatican II tells us, “Jesus Christ reveals man to himself” (GS 24).  That is, when we look at him, we see what a human is supposed to be.  It is true that we will never be even close to equal to God.  But in Jesus’ perfect human nature we see what man is capable of, and even more incredibly, he invites us into his own divine nature to the point that it has been said that God became man that man might become God.  This outrageous reality can become so normal to us that we forget what a unique and undeserved privilege it is to participate in the life of God himself.

Jesus Christ is the center of humanity and of all human history.  Everything before Jesus was preparing us for his coming, and all the time since we are living in the age of grace in which the benefits of his first coming are being applied.  Simply put, Christmas changed everything.

Now on to gifts.  What do you get the Guy Who Made Everything for his birthday? He longs for the one thing that he has decided to not lay claim to: our hearts.  The truth is, that even after all the things I listed above, there are some who choose to live as if God had never entered human history.  There are many more that see Jesus as a cute folk tale to share with kids, but have never considered that he might make a difference in their lives.  Heck, let’s be honest.  Every time we sin we are choosing in some way to deny Jesus.  In a very practical way, “giving Jesus my heart” this Christmas season can mean a trip to the confessional.  In doing so, we can allow Jesus to be the Savior he was born to be.  Or perhaps there is an area of our lives that we are not allowing him to be Lord over.  Maybe there is one Church teaching that we struggle with, that we have put aside instead of seeking to have it clarified.  To seek to understand and obey would be a huge gift to Jesus this Christmas.

So this Christmas season, as we slowly work our way through the birthday cake we always bake for the Savior (and which he never eats), I will deliberately call to mind the incalculable impact he has had on my life.  As we work our way through disposing of the cardboard and plastic packaging from which our many gifts were liberated, I will try to offer Jesus the only gift on his list: me.

My infant son Peter died on the Feast of Christ the King in 2006.  That year, the feast fell on the Sunday following Thanksgiving.  We had been out of town visiting family when he began to eat less and appear listless.  On the Wednesday prior to  Thanksgiving we took him into the emergency room at the local children’s hospital expecting to get a prescription and return to the festivities.  Instead they admitted him, soon to discover he was in liver failure.  The team of doctors worked very hard to try to diagnose and treat him, but there was nothing they could do.  He died five days later of what we now know is a rare genetic condition.

Because Peter died on the eve of the “holiday season,” many lamented how hard the timing of everything must have been for us. Don’t get me wrong. It was hard. At one point my husband gently told me it was time to stop pouring over the “Baby’s First Christmas” sleepers when we were out at stores.
Our secular culture celebrates all of December as the “most wonderful time of the year” where everyone snuggles up before the fire, baking cookies and wrapping presents. According to them, we are supposed to create Norman Rockwell-esque scenes of family warmth and harmony.  So, yes, fresh grief is even more striking in comparison. But at Mass, for four Sundays, our souls were mirrored in the hauntingly beautiful liturgies.

Advent is a penitential season of waiting, of longing for the Lord. So many of the readings are from Isaiah, from the heart of a people in exile, crying out to God to save them. And His promise in return: I have not forgotten you.

Advent is a liturgical period of authentic hope.  In Advent, we prepare for Jesus’ coming at Christmas, both 2,000 years ago, and mystically today. But we also remember that he will come again and there will be a day when every tear will be wiped away, when “no longer will there be an infant who lives but a few days” (Isaiah 65:19-20).

Jesus didn’t come to boost the economy through holiday sales. He didn’t come to create a great opportunity for families to get together (though, of course, that’s a wonderful fruit). He came to suffer for us, that one day our own suffering might give way to an eternity of joy.

So, there is no sense in pretending that December is an easy time for those who grieve.  But there is no reason for people in pain to feel out of place in this season.   It is precisely to them that it belongs.

“For to me life is Christ, and death is gain.” –Paul

A friend and I were chatting a few months following Gianna’s death and she said if she lost two children she thought she would “just want to die.” She asked me, “Do you just want to die sometimes?”

As I thought about it, I had to answer yes. Not in the suicidal way, but in the Pauline way. It’s natural to want to be with your family, especially your kids, and I’m kind of stuck in the middle with an even number on each side of heaven — two immediate family members here and two in heaven.

More than longing to be with my little saints, their presence in heaven lifts my mind to a higher truth: heaven is real, and it is the goal for all. Peter and Gianna are more real than I am because they are seeing God face to face; they are part of the Church Triumphant. They are hanging out with the whole Communion of Saints, enjoying the bliss they were created for.

This mindset excites me for eternity when “death is gain.” It makes me long, like the early Church, for Jesus to return. The prospect of the second coming seemed like some weird science fiction story when I was a kid, and as an adult, before losing my kids it was frankly kind of terrifying. However, it is a central tenant of our faith. And now, I dream about it.

For us all to go at once, without any more funerals or sympathy cards, for us all to understand what God was doing all this time… Come, Lord Jesus! For the evils and injustices in our world to be exposed and those responsible to be held to account… Come, Lord Jesus! For not one more parent to have to stand at their child’s grave… Come, Lord Jesus!

In the meantime, “life is Christ.” There is a reason within his great mercy why this big blue marble keeps spinning. So we keep working for his glory, trying to bring others back into the fold. While we labor here on earth, we also need to keep an eye on heaven, so that we don’t get too comfortable down here. As our little ones remind us, it is not our home.

But what will heaven be like? I asked my professor a question from one of our teens: do dogs go to heaven? Without hesitating, he answered, “no!” I don’t have time to get into the details. But for our purposes here, it made me think about the thought of heaven that this question betrays.

I think many people imagine being in heaven as sitting on a cloud, strumming a harp. In which case, I hope Fido is there, so to at least play catch or something. We would have to just sit around like that forever? Even if it were playing golf or watching movies, or whatever strikes your fancy here on earth, we would get bored really quickly. In this idea of heaven, we are projecting our own life onto heaven. And in doing so, we are selling it short. In a huge way.

Scripture tells us that “eye has not seen, nor ear heard what God has ready for those who love him.” So it won’t be like anything we have ever seen or heard or even imagined. That means there will be no Wii. Or Coldstone. Or even marriage. But the trick is, we won’t care because everything our hearts were made for, every frustrated desire we long for on earth will be exceeded in seeing the face of our Savior forever. I won’t pretend to imagine what that will be like, I just know it will be indescribably perfect and that I want to go there.

That is why it is so important to not get too attached to anything here on earth. Nothing fleeting will be with us in eternity (not even my gorgeous newly remodeled bathroom). And the more we cling to those things, the harder we make it for ourselves to get there. Keeping everything in its right balance is not easy, but in the face of eternity, it is worth a try.