Lately, I’ve been fixating on a phrase: perfectly imperfect. As someone with a type B personality, I suppose this confirms for me that I do not need to be perfect. It also resonates deeply as I know God alone to be perfect, and since I am only a reflection of that perfection, the expectation for me to be flawless is simply not there. In many ways it takes the pressure off. Yet, we are barraged with images of perfection: houses, yards, wardrobes, vacations, complexions, menus, families; you name it. It is enough to make me, a believer in my own imperfection, wonder if perhaps I could be capable of this kind of perfection. So when I read that Blessed Is She is featuring ‘extraordinary women for ordinary time,’ I was hooked. I have helped to facilitate a women’s discussion group for several years now and each year we brainstorm a list of topic suggestions to explore. Every year the women express a deep desire to discuss, learn from and in most cases, discover extraordinary, contemporary women. We have tomes of stories, legend and history about women who have gone before us, but to whom do we look now? Mustn’t we acknowledge this extra-ordinariness as a possibility in our midst, if we ourselves hope to live extraordinary lives? Isn’t that what the Reign of God means? As a facilitator of this group and a mother, I believe this is essential! There is immense value in knowing and learning from the Saints and the Martyrs and I love that rich history. But sometimes I fear that by looking back at the extraordinary, we are ignoring the holy women of our own time. The truth is, they are everywhere. Thankfully we are wholly attached, a part of and in need of one another in this communion of saints as a witness to the other-worldly that we believe we are bound for: The extra-ordinary. We all are blessed to know an extraordinary woman (or several). Today rather than presenting you with my image of the extraordinary, I present to you a challenge: Name one ‘ordinary’ woman in your life who points to the extraordinary. Write her a letter. Call her on the phone. Send her flowers. Tell your friends, spouse or children how her life glorifies God. Thank her for reminding you of the extraordinary…because if you don’t tell her, who will?

Throughout the month of May, we will be sharing posts focused on journeying alongside the Blessed Virgin Mary. Share your experiences in the comments or on social media using #praywithmary. Hanging in my daughters’ room is one of my favorite depictions of the Visitation, Jump for Joy. Adolescent Mary and her cousin, Saint Elizabeth seem to be lost in the moment, both in reuniting and in the seemingly impossible ways that God has showed up and moved through their lives—and their bodies! We know the punchline of the story. That Saint John the Baptist, cousin of Jesus, leaped in Elizabeth’s womb at the very greeting of Mary, in whose womb Jesus is nurtured (see Luke 1: 39-56). And yet, a lot is left to the imagination about their encounter. Making Her Way . . . in Haste Mary travels (alone!) for many miles to care for her cousin when she hears that Elizabeth is expecting. How did she get there? What cultural faux pas would she encounter as a young, engaged, woman with child, traveling alone? How long did she stay? What did she understand about her role as the mother of Jesus, to which she had signed on at this point? Elizabeth and John certainly seem to have a sense of it. My Own Visitation With Friends I cannot help but think of my women friends on the Feast of the Visitation. Likely because I recently had the privilege of going on retreat with several of them. Probably because my one and only female cousin lives across the country, my heart goes straight to the women with whom life’s circumstances have encouraged me to share my soul—as was the case for Mary and Elizabeth. Our time together is always balm to my spirit—whether we swap a quick hello and childcare for one another, or if that entails wine, pizza, and set-aside time for deeper sharing. The time we set aside together for our annual retreat this year was noteworthy as we dedicated a morning to praying over one another and asking for the prayers we hold most deeply at our core—vulnerable prayers for healing, fullness, friendship, forgiveness, direction, and so on. Admittedly, I am not well-practiced at this. Yet the Holy Spirit settled heavily in our midst as we brought forth burdens deeply buried. This is the gift of accompaniment that Mary understood so well. This is the spirit with which we celebrate the Visitation. Walking With Each Other Certainly we cannot relate to Mary’s role in bringing Jesus to birth or Elizabeth in her advanced age carrying John the Baptist. Though in a similar way, each of us carry our most fragile hopes, desires, and hurts deep within in us, with the same posture of tenderness. As with all births, the transition from closed off carrying and open-sharing, is best accomplished by the accompaniment of these skilled midwives. In this Year of Mercy, who am I being invited to walk with? In doing so, am I attentive to another’s need like Mary, or do we see the ways (big and small) that the Spirit leaps in response with Elizabeth’s vision? Mary and Elizabeth, pray for us!

For the past two weeks I have had the opportunity to observe something so beautiful that I was moved to tears while sitting in the pew at Mass. Although I love our parish and the ways we celebrate the Liturgy, this observation had nothing to do with any formal Rite or ritual specific for this Sunday. And yet, the sacrament I observed has had a lasting impact and its memory has lingered into the weeks that have followed. Something about the way that it happened, I suppose. On retreat this past spring with the women from my small church community, I confided that (at my best) I have experienced this deep appreciation for my participation in the Communion of Saints—particularly as the gathered community approaches the Eucharist. That there is something so compelling and intimate in the way we physically sign onto this belief by way of approaching the Eucharistic table, all together. It is to say, “Yes!,” “Amen,” and getting onto my feet to walk with the aged, the young, those who seem to have it all together and those who wear their lives on their bodies and faces; all to approach the God that loves and created each of us. A priest friend of mine might remind me that I am appreciating the many ‘unique expressions of God’s creative love.’ The first experience I can recall of this deep love for Christ’s Body in-the-pews was at a Good Friday service in my home parish in high school. I remember staring as everyone in our gathered community, approached the altar and tenderly kissed the cross. Simultaneously, such an intimate and public expression of the love for the Savior and a glimpse into the relationship between humanity and God. Years later, in a small parish in the rural Midwest, I began assisting with the distribution of Holy Communion. This time it was the hands of Christ’s Body that moved me. As each member approached the Eucharist, hands extended, I gleaned a small bit of their story. From very practiced grade-schoolers, hands folded across their chests; men whose hands so clearly indicated the effects that toiling the land had had on them; young manicured hands; arthritic hands, soft and frail from a lifetime of nourishing and nurturing others. All of these stories offered up and reaching for the source of strength before heading back into daily life. And so it is with this vision that I hope to participate in the Mystical Body. Years of working with a boy with Cerebral Palsy and reading the insights of Jean Vanier have helped me to recognize the sacred vulnerability and realness in individuals with physical limitations whose journey necessitates a companion. This interdependence cuts to the core of who we are and who God calls us to be for others. So I know myself well enough to acknowledge my awareness of those in our parish with physical disabilities, especially as of late. There is one man in our parish who I have recently noticed. He appears to be my own father’s age. He sits in the back of church with his family in a reclining wheel chair, under a Broncos blanket. He is assisted by a young man—a senior in high school or college maybe. I suspect he may be this man’s son. It is the tenderness with which this young man accompanies his charge that, I have realized, elicits such an emotional response in me. As the man appears to be unable to receive the host, each week his companion lovingly and carefully becomes his Eucharistic minister—in a physical and spiritual sense—creatively and reverently assisting in his reception from the cup. I cannot but be reminded of the Transubstantiation—the act that took place minutes earlier when we believe that the bread and wine becomes Jesus. Take. Eat. And become what you have received. Companionship is unscripted work. It can be awkward, and it always means getting involved in the lived experience of another person. Each Gospel writer includes a description of the first Eucharist, though John’s description stands out as a bit more direct—and a perfect metaphor in this instance. Rather than any formal instruction on the meaning of bread and wine, John’s Jesus takes off his outer garments, kneels and takes the worn and dirty feet of the disciples into his hands and washes them—lovingly and creatively leading by example (John 13:4-15). To the young man who sits behind me at Mass—I want you to know that I see your lived participation in the Eucharist. You are a sacrament in my life. An outward sign of an inward grace. Your lived example inspires me and I am honored to approach our Lord at table with you in this Communion of Saints.